


Concerto for a Little Bird

by caleco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/M, M/M, Music, Music AU, Musicians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caleco/pseuds/caleco
Summary: Sansa Stark has finally reached the pinnacle of her career, sitting principal flautist of the famed New York Symphony. But between the cruel principal cellist, the mysterious symphony board, and the ruthless competition, she’ll have her work cut out for her.
Relationships: Bronn/Margaery Tyrell, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister/Shae
Comments: 92
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this was supposed to be a one-shot, now look where we are. Please feel free to comment!

Tyrion Lannister was nothing if not a brilliant maestro; he had an artful way of conducting his symphony, a (usually) patient temper with his musicians, and an ear to rival some of the greats. 

But he was godawful with time management.

Sansa couldn’t help but sigh when she glanced at her phone; he was already fifteen minutes late to the rehearsal, nowhere to be seen. Her fellow musicians seemed nonchalant with the ordeal, still warming up and chatting among themselves, rearranging music and pushing cases under their chairs. Maybe she was overreacting- maybe it was just the nerves.

It was her first rehearsal with the New York Symphony, after all, and she hadn’t been able to hold down a scrap of food in the past day. She felt nervous, anxious, dreadful- it was as if she were about to perform her masters recital all over again.

She felt so out of place in the middle of the woodwind section, looking around at the faces around her. They were all world renowned, famous, and highly sought after- hell, she was pretty sure Loras Tyrell, the principal oboist, had recorded more albums than the years she’d been _alive._

“He’s always late.” Shae assured her, giving her a warm smile to calm her nerves. Sansa smiled back, a little forced. Her offer letter had clearly outlined a strict attendance policy, and Sansa had made sure to arrive nearly an hour before rehearsal.

She was determined not to screw this up, lest they realize she really didn’t deserve it.

“Do you know him well?” Sansa asked. Shae paused, her piccolo halfway to her lips, and gave Sansa an odd sort of grin.

“He’s our maestro, so yes.” Shae quipped. 

Sansa had definitely read the gossip tabloids that said differently, but decided not to press it.

“Alright, alright.” Tyrion grumbled, waving his hands over the stand at the front. He had climbed onto his extra-tall stool, looking almost a normal height to the orchestra. He had a pair of dark sunglasses on, his wild curls slightly disheveled. A rough night, perhaps.

“We’ll start with _Marche slave_ , perhaps? Nothing like a bit of Tchiak to get me going in the mornings.” Tyrion said dryly, thumbing through his scores.

Sansa took a deep breath. The Slavonic March wasn’t anything she hadn’t played for- not too difficult, not too exposed. Easing her in.

“And we will also welcome our new musicians to the symphony- we have our new timpaniest, Bronn Blackwater, joining us from the Chicago Symphony.” Tyrion said, motioning to a tall, brown-haired man that looked equally as disheveled as Tyrion. By the way Tyrion smirked, it seemed that the two clearly knew each other.

“We also have Sansa Stark, our new principal flautist. Joining us from….” Tyrion stopped for a moment, struggling for words. Sansa smiled softly, her face heating up.

“Nowhere, sir.” She said softly, feeling awkward under the eyes of the symphony. 

A few people mumbled around her- likely from her last name. She ignored it.

“Sansa Stark from nowhere, then.” Tyrion said charmingly, nodding his head towards her. Had anyone else of said it, she might’ve been offended- but he seemed not unkind in his words.

“Now. Without further ado, _Marche slave.”_

\----------------

  
  


There were few things that made Sansa’s heart pump more than her music, made her feel more _alive._ She’d never tried skydiving, rock climbing, anything said to compare; but she doubted it would hold a candle to it.

The march famously started with a solemn cello melody, changing into a pizzicato version of the tune. It was almost cocky in a way, sly and mocking, and she couldn’t help but fall into it. The cellos were watching Tyrion closely, the room entirely silent save for the building tune. 

The principal cellist made her breath catch in her throat, watching his big fingers strum each pizzicato harshly. He seemed almost too big for the instrument, dwarfing even the full sized version. He was giant and muscular, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his dark shirt stretched over his arms, the muscles flexing as he played…

And she noticed his face, and had to stop herself from gasping. It was terribly scarred, bared due to his long, dark hair being pulled back. It looked awful, and she felt herself pitying the poor man.

Shae cleared her throat next to her, and Sansa immediately snapped out of it, preparing for the first flute entrance. Her face burned.

\-------------

Sansa cleaned her flute carefully, polishing her fingertips from its surface before she could put it away. It was her most valuable possession, worth more than practically anything else she owned. In a way, it was the last thing left of her father, too.

“You’re very talented.” 

She looked up to find Loras Tyrell in front of her, leaning onto her stand to talk to her. He had a handsome smile on his face, fiddling with the light on her stand.

“Thank you. You are, as well- but I’m sure you’ve been told that a million times before.” Sansa gushed a bit, not able to keep the words tumbling from her lips. She sounded like a stupid little girl, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. It was the Loras Tyrell, telling her that she was actually something.

“You tuned to me in a heartbeat in the middle section. I’m not sure I could’ve done the same to you.” He laughed.

“Well, it’s much easier for me to tune than you.” Sansa offered back, grabbing her flute case before she stood.

“You’ll have to meet my sister. You’re exactly her type- prim, proper, insanely talented.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Her type?”

Loras gave a lopsided smile. “She has a way of taking people under her wing. She’s on the symphony board, if you’re coming to the opening night gala.”

“I think it’s required,” She responded, feeling a bit unsure at his response. She didn’t know much about the symphony board, to be honest- she knew that her father had once despised it, and Robb had told her to stay as uninvolved with it as possible. But they’d always been so overprotective of her, and she wasn’t the little girl that she used to be.

“Well I look forward to seeing you there, lovely Sansa.” Loras gave her a wink, leaving her behind to follow the principal clarinet backstage. Sansa couldn’t help a small smile, her heart beating a little too fast. She knew Loras had a bit of a reputation, according to the tabloids, but he was so handsome, so talented-

“Girl, are you going to be here all day?” A rough voice interrupted her fantasizing.

Sansa bristled at his tone, looking around to spot the principal cellist from before, lurking near the front of the stage. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his long-sleeve t-shirt, showing off hairy, muscled biceps the size of her legs. She tried not to look.

He seemed like an asshole, anyways.

“I was just gathering my things.” Sansa said stiffly, pulling her gold flute bag closer around her body. He was appraising her, his mouth a straight line on his face. One side drooped due to the scars, and she couldn’t help but follow it up the ropey, destroyed skin, up his face.

“You done looking yet? Get your fill?” He growled, almost snarling at her. She was taken aback at his hateful tone, taking a step back.

“No, no- that’s not it-” She stuttered a bit, embarrassed at being caught. It wasn’t ladylike at all, to stare so openly at his scars. 

“I’ve got to record here. Take your chirpings elsewhere, will you?” He shot at her, turning back to his cello. 

Sansa scrambled from the stage, the cold air from outside calming her down a bit. What an awful man.

\--------------

The practices often left Sansa exhausted, her mouth aching after the many run throughs, the constant repeats at Maestro Lannister’s whims. He was a very particular man, and often made them run short sections repeatedly until it was perfect to him. 

She felt like she’d been slacking some with her private studio, too; she had plenty of young students, all in high school or college. Once she had put ads out, they had flocked to her, despite her young age. She supposed it was the Stark family name, the seal of approval already there.

Sansa hated it a bit- being the daughter of one of the most famous music families had made certain things seem too easy. She knew she was talented, had the countless hours to show for it. But there were times she thought of her parents, and wondered if it were truly _all_ her accomplishments.

Her father had been the most brilliant pianist in America when he was in his prime; he had music halls named after him, tours with every major symphony in the world. Sansa remembered travelling a lot as a child, seeing the art unfold before her. 

Her mother was the greatest operatic soprano Sansa had ever heard; from a young age, even Sansa could tell something about her was _different_ , something set her apart from the others. It was the spark in her eyes, the intensity of her song. 

After her father had died, it all went away.

But there was still Robb, well on his way to being the pianist that their father had once been. Jon was an up-and-coming classical guitarist, as well as lead guitar for the _Night’s Watch,_ one of the most famous American punk bands. Arya was somewhere off in Africa, learning and documenting the indigenous music. Bran was finishing his bassoon degree at Juilliard, and Rickon was well on his way to a full-ride at any conservatory, with his accomplishments on the violin.

They had a legacy, even with her father gone.

She tried to not let it get to her head, even after the exhaustion of her first real orchestra position set in. Her father would be proud, regardless of how taxing it was. It was worth it.

\------------

At the fourth rehearsal, the day before the opening concert, Tyrion finally broke.

“Are you fucking daft?” He scoffed, all but throwing his baton at the principal snare, Tormund Giantsbane.

“Not that I know of, sir,” Tormund said cheekily. The entire orchestra was very silent, all members trying to find something in their sheet music to ponder over. 

Tyrion gave an elaborate sigh. “Then can you please let your eighths sound like eighths? If Respighi wanted triplets, he would’ve written them.”

Tyrion muttered under his breath, an obscenity Sansa couldn’t quite catch. Tormund was still grinning ear to ear. Sansa had never had a conversation with the redheaded man, but he always seemed a bit _off._

“Dress rehearsal, 3 pm tomorrow. But there 2:45. Then tune up at 6:45. Surely we can at least accomplish that?” Tyrion asked, throwing his hands up. 

“He isn’t always like this,” Shae whispered to Sansa, a faint smile on her lips. Sansa thought she was crazy- if she grinned any more, she’d be screamed at like the principal snare. But Shae just shook her head, her glossy curls falling around her face. “He just needs a good nap.”

Sansa nodded faintly, unsure of if she was supposed to respond to that or not. It felt like a conversation she wasn’t supposed to be a part of.

Shae scampered off quickly, packing up her instruments in a hurry to exit the same door the maestro had previously. Sansa filed that away for future thought.

She began the task of cleaning her flute thoroughly- first the swab on the inside, which was usually rather disgusting. Those that thought flute was for the dainty and the clean were sorely mistaken. Then came the pads of her flute, sliding a thin sheet of pad paper underneath her keys to soak up extra moisture. Then, a yellow silk cloth to polish the outside before placing it carefully in her plush-lined case.

“Do I have to spell it out for you, girl? This is my stage at 4 pm, Fridays.” 

Sansa closed her eyes at his voice, asking the gods for patience. She was already exhausted from the rehearsals the past few days, not to mention the lessons she’d already given today. She wasn’t sure she could handle a large brute being rude to her, yet again.

“I’m cleaning my flute, sir. It’s proper instrument maintenance.” Sansa bit back, trying her best to keep her ladylike manners, hoping her mother wasn’t somehow listening in. She wiped her sweaty palms on her denim skirt, crossing her ankles politely.

“You take too damn long.” The man grumbled. He wore a light grey t-shirt today, short-sleeved. The New York summer was still raging on, back with a vengeance after a slight cool spell. Sansa didn’t mind it, especially not at the sight of his arms. Gods, they were huge.

And he was still an asshole, she reminded herself.

“My instrument is important to me.” Sansa quipped back. She grabbed her bags, hopping up.

“The one daddy bought for you?” 

The statement made her recoil a bit. Gods, she’d tried not to let him get to her this time, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her affected by his words. But it lit her on fire anyways, the burn coming back in her chest. 

“First off,” Sansa started, pointing a manicured finger in his direction, _daring_ him to interrupt. He stopped in his movements, taken aback. “I earned this flute- it was paid for by my hard work, by _years_ of gigs. Which I got after I went through conservatory for six years- _after_ I worked my ass off for a full ride. Don’t you dare pretend you know me.” 

The man just raised his eyebrows, crossing his (large) arms over his chest in appraisal. 

“I guess the little bird has a bit of bite.” Was all he said, turning back to his cello after a moment.

Sansa was too heated, too focused on getting out of that building and far away from him, to notice what he said. _Little bird._

She hated him.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess who my favorite character is after reading this chapter? :)

“You’re sounding wonderful, Shireen,” Sansa said.

“I’ve been practicing one hour every day, Ms. Sansa.” The girl said proudly, her little smile infectious. Shireen Baratheon was like a little drop of sunlight on Sansa’s normal Saturday mornings; the girl was always prepared, always punctual, and always improving. Soon enough, her skill would surpass where Sansa had been at that age.

And with one front tooth missing in her smile, she was hard not to love. 

“That’s very good! Maybe we can look at the Telemann next week?” Sansa offered, packing up her instructor scores. Shireen nodded eagerly, beginning to pack up her flute.

“Remember to clean under the keys, too.” Sansa added, feeling a bit of her own obsessiveness creep in. Shireen blushed, caught in the act.

It was only Shireen’s fourth lesson with Sansa, and she’d always been dropped off by a tall, slender woman with dark hair. The lady rarely talked to Sansa, just offering her an envelope of payment each time and ushering Sansa into the apartment elevator. 

She was always extremely punctual, though, and Sansa had been glancing at the clock for the past five minutes. Odd, but she’d give her some time before calling.

“How did you pick the flute, Shireen?” Sansa asked, noticing the awkwardness that had fell between them. Even Shireen seemed to notice the tardiness.

“Well, my dad plays the french horn. I knew I didn’t want that, and the strings sounded so shrieky!” Shireen explained, animated. “And the flute was so pretty- like a little bird.”

Sansa had to hold back a grimace at the comparison.

Luckily, there was a strong knock at the door, and Shireen bounced to her feet.

“Come in!” Sansa said, straightening out the skirt of her dress.

It was definitely not the dark-haired lady this time- instead, a somewhat familiar face stood in her usual place.

“Stannis?” Sansa asked, confused. He had to reason to come to her before the dress rehearsal- let alone that, how did he know where she lived?

“Daddy!” Shireen yelled, reaching up to throw her arm around the man’s neck. 

Oh.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. Usually her sitter is able to work on Saturdays, but she had to leave due to a family emergency.” Stannis said, returning his daughter’s hug with one of his own, his stony features barely changing. “I can assure you, we will be on time from now on.”

“Oh, no- it’s fine. I promise.” Sansa rushed out, still a little taken aback. Not that she thought the stern principal horn couldn’t have children- though it was an odd sight. 

“I had no idea Shireen was yours.” Sansa added. 

“Yes, I haven’t had a chance to properly introduce myself. Between the symphony and teaching at the university, my time has been quite sparse.” Stannis said, a hint of a wry smile on his features. He reached out a hand.

“Well, hello then.” Sansa offered, shaking his hand back.

“Shireen was taking lessons from the former principal flute, Melisandre. But, well.” Stannis stopped for a moment, a slightly pained smile on his face, his eyes staring at something Sansa couldn’t see. “She had to leave her position.”

“Oh.” Was all Sansa could say. What did somebody say to that? Sorry?

“We’ve got to get going- I’ll see you at dress rehearsal, Sansa.” Stannis gave another forced smile, his hand on Shireen’s shoulder as he quickly left her apartment. 

That was very awkward, Sansa decided.

\-----------------

The dress rehearsal had Sansa soaked in sweat after just fifteen minutes.

It was one of the New York Symphony’s famous outdoor concerts, the perfect beginning to an ambitious season. They had a large swatch of Central Park completely shut down, with a giant symphony stage constructed in front of the rolling hills, and a large pond serving as a backdrop to the concert. The paths cutting through the park were full of vendors setting up shops, all outfitting with lights hanging from the canopy of trees. It was just being set up, a frantic endeavor that involved hundreds, if not thousands of people, but it had Sansa giddy with excitement.

Even with beads of sweat running down her back.

The orchestra finished the final theme from  _ West Side Story  _ selection, the musicians almost sighing as a whole. Most were fishing for water bottles, the backstage crew furiously navigating the stands to deliver new ones.

Sansa had hers firmly pressed to her forehead as Tyrion rambled.

“And then we will leave the stage, and then come back for an encore because  _ of course we will.  _ I’m considering the  _ America  _ theme as an encore- or perhaps the last section of  _ Marche Slav _ . I’m undecided.” Tyrion went on, tapping his baton against his chin as he thought.

Loras sighed loudly beside her, already removing his reed from his instrument. 

“I can barely handle his rambling in air conditioning,” A voice from behind her grumbled. Renly Baratheon, principal clarinet, was usually a rather well-mannered musician, though he and Loras seemed to feed off each other’s emotions, oddly enough. Kind of like Bran and Rickon, Sansa supposed.

“Dismissed. Be on stage fifteen minutes before performance.” Tyrion finally said, pulled from his musings.

“How much wine do you think he’ll drink before the performance?” Loras asked Renly, his oboe already put up in a blink of an eye; Sansa had come to know him as almost  _ annoyingly  _ energetic.

“Depends. How many wine carts are in the park?” Renly shot back, along with a sly grin that Sansa almost felt guilty for looking at. Like she was intruding on something she had no part in witnessing.

“Sansa, do you have a minute?,” A voice from in front of her asked, pulling her away from her meticulous cleaning. Sam Tarly stood in front of her, his bassoon case slung over his large back. His shirt was nearly soaked through with sweat, but the large man still smiled so eagerly.

“So Tyrion had mentioned that the next masterworks concert was a small ensemble one- would you be interested in maybe doing a woodwind quintet? If not, that is certainly okay, it’s not a huge deal and I know you’re incredibly busy and you sound wonderful by the way-,” Sam rambled.

“Sam. Yes, of course. That sounds wonderful.” Sansa interrupted, giving him a warm smile to assure him it was good. He nodded vigorously, his cheeks red from embarrassment and summer weather.

“Great! Good. I’m excited.” Sam said, looking around a moment, as if he didn’t expect to get this far. “That’s wonderful. I’m going to go now.”

Sansa waited until he was out of earshot to laugh a little at the awkwardness of the man; he was such a nice, cheery person, but utterly dreadful with anyone of the opposite gender. Hopefully that would fade, if a quintet was in the works.

Once again, she was one of the last ones on the stage. She took a moment to look out onto the huge field in front of the stage, full of lush grass and rolling plains. It could hold thousands, she was sure, and the thought made her a little anxious. She’d played in front of hundreds before, yes, but thousands? Never.

“Girl.” The cellist was back on the stage somehow, sneaking on during her anxious thoughts. She’d barely been able to see him during the rehearsal, with the winds’ risers being shorter than normal. Not that she was looking, of course.

“You can’t reserve this stage.” Sansa shot back, a knee-jerk reaction in her.  _ Little bird. _

__ The man ignored her, instead saying, “Here.”

Sansa Stark had never played a sport in her life, and there was good reason for that. She could run fairly well, as a tool for increasing her breathing capacity for her instrument, but past that, none. Her hand-eye coordination was close to nonexistent.

And when he threw the water bottle at her, she knew she had next to no chance of catching it.

Sansa gave a small shriek, dodging the water bottle just in time; it instead hit the back of Loras’s chair, falling onto the riser below.

“What the hell was that for?” Sansa asked angrily, watching the man. He had the gall to have a little  _ smirk  _ on his face, his muscled arms crossed across his large chest. Gods, the shirt even stuck to him like a second skin, sweat still beading on his neck.

No. Asshole.

“Your face is as red as your hair.” He said simply, walking back off the stage.

Sansa fumed, fisting the straps of her flute bag in her hands. The man was insufferable, infuriating- like his sole purpose in this orchestra was to make her upset. The first emotion he’d shown besides anger was  _ amusement  _ at her mess up.

She picked up the water anyways, noticing it was ice-cold. She wasn’t sure how he managed to get a perfectly cold one, on a hot summers day, without going out of his way.

Even though part of her wanted to pour it all over his chair, maybe soak his sheet music, she tried instead to think of her mom’s lessons. Be a lady, Sansa. Even if he didn’t deserve to see you act like one.

She drank it, albeit bitterly. She was feeling a bit overheated, anyways.

\--------------------

Sansa lugged her flute case on her back, her two changes of clothes folded neatly inside. Before she switched to the first, a modest, black concert gown, she wanted to grab a bite of food. There was nothing worse than performing on an empty stomach, and she wasn’t going to risk it.

A few food trucks had already taken up residence on the pathways, tucked in beside the trees. It was already so quaint and charming that Sansa couldn’t help but feel a lift in her step.

She had hopped up to a little gyro place, craving a good homemade tzatziki, when someone interrupted her order.

“Make that two.” A familiar voice behind her added.

Robb Stark was grinning from ear to ear, barely containing his glee at finding his sister off guard. 

“What are you doing here?” Sansa exclaimed after she hugged his neck, almost knocking him over from the force. He laughed, patting at the case on her back.

“I can’t miss my sister’s first big girl concert.” He teased.

“I thought you were in California!” She complained, slapping his shoulder. “You told me two days ago that you were still in LA.”

“Well, it wasn’t a lie.” Theon Greyjoy added from beside him, happily munching on a sandwich.

“I’m not surprised to see you.” Sansa shot back. “You’re always coming out of dark little corners.”

Theon cackled at that. Ever since they were children, Theon and Robb had taken every chance they could to mess with her; countless pranks and scares, all at Sansa’s expense. 

“Mom told me your first concert was coming up, and we flew out from there. Well, I came from LA and picked him up around Chicago.” Robb explained.

At the mention of her Mom, Sansa felt a twinge of uncomfortable feelings. She knew her mother wouldn’t come to her concerts, but still. She was a shell of the woman she was before her husband died, and she mostly kept to her hometown in England nowadays. With the Starks scattered across the world, it was hard to feel much of a connection anymore.

“Well I’ve still got an hour to kill, and I’m starving.” Sansa announced, grabbing the gyros from the stand behind her. 

“After you, sister.” Robb responded.

\--------------

The hour before the concert was a blur for Sansa, but it was a happy one. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d been lately, missing her siblings, until Robb and Theon were there beside her, egging her on.

“Any hot dudes in the symphony nowadays?” Theon asked innocently, pulling at a strand of Sansa’s red hair. She yanked his hand away, scowling.

“ _ No.”  _ Sansa said quickly. It was lie- there were definitely a few- Loras was classically handsome, with his light blonde curls and chiseled jawline. Stannis was tall and stern, maybe handsome in the right light. Decidedly too old. There was another trumpet player, too, with golden hair and a confident grin.

_ And the cellist,  _ a little voice inside her mentioned. Tall, impossibly wide, with big, calloused hands and silky hair and-

Oh, fuck no, Sansa thought quickly, suddenly wanting to drown herself in the nearest pond.

“You see that Robb? She’s a dirty liar.” Theon laughed, pointing at Sansa’s reddening face. 

“C’mon, Sans, they’re all ancient.” Robb responded, turning his nose up at her.

“Not all of them,” Sansa shot back. “And no. I have absolutely no interest at all in any of them, thank you.”

“We’ll be here to threaten the guy when you do get together,” Theon said smugly, clapping her on the back.

“When is your plane leaving again?” Sansa asked.

Theon was still living out of Chicago, playing drums for a grunge group he’d cheekily dubbed the  _ Krakens.  _ He’d briefly had a run with Jon’s band, but that didn’t last long, and they don’t talk about it.

“Go get changed. We’ll be here for you after.” Robb laughed, pushing Sansa towards the stage. 

“They’re having a little ball after, actually,” Sansa replied, suddenly feeling a little unsure of herself. Going to a ball on her own suddenly seemed so daunting- with Theon and Robb back, she felt more like herself, more outgoing and happy, but without them? She wasn’t so confident.

“Aw, our little sis has grown on up.” Theon said, taking a swig of his (second) beer.

“Fine, fine. We understand,” Robb said with a smile. “Brunch tomorrow?”

“If you’re not too hungover,” Theon added with a wink.

“Deal. Love you,” Sansa added, giving Robb a quick peck on the cheek. 

“Don’t really love you,” Sansa added, skipping over Theon.

She ran off while he scoffed after her.

\------------------

Sansa climbed onto the risers gently, trying not to trip over the hem of her long dress. It was more form fitting than her usual clothes, but luckily the sun had gotten low on the horizon, cooling off the stage immensely.

She settled into her seat, arranging her sheet music. She could feel eyes watching her, somewhere in the rush of people moving around the stage.

The principal cellist was watching her carefully, one hand gripped around the neck of his cello while the other was paused, moving his sheet music around. He was leaning forward, as if he were caught off guard, frozen in his movements.

And he was watching her, his expression unreadable. She crossed one leg over the other underneath her skirts, a mannerism left over from her mother, and his eyes followed the movements.

He met her gaze and she expected to have to stare him down, to try and show she wasn’t putting up with his rudeness any longer; but to her surprise, he immediately looked away, hurriedly continuing his previous actions.

She wasn’t sure what to make of that, but she couldn’t deny that he looked strangely attractive in his concert black, the dark button-up snug across his chest and his hair combed back away from his face, for once. His scars were on full display to the orchestra, but to her surprise, she didn’t mind them.

She swallowed her thoughts down as Tyrion took the stage, waving a hand to the orchestra. They all stood as a block, to the thunderous applause of thousands on the lawn, and Sansa found that she hadn’t even had a chance to feel nervous.

  
  


\------------------

  
  


The concert went beautifully, each piece following with a huge round of applause. The audience ate up Tyrion’s every word between pieces, laughing at his dry humor and captivated by the tales behind the pieces. Sansa was fairly sure Loras and Renly had been wrong- that, or the short man could hold his alcohol much better than she ever could.

At the end of  _ West Side Story,  _ Tyrion pointed out the soloists, each musician rising with each flick of his finger. Sansa rose, a broad grin on her face at the thousands in front of her. She wasn’t nervous, wasn’t anything but elated-  _ this was where she belonged.  _

__ When she stood, there were two huge whistles in the audience, followed by various whoops and hollers- she glanced around to find Theon in the audience, furiously waving his arms about, and Robb with his hands cupped around his yelling mouth. Sansa couldn’t even feel embarrassed.

“Now it’s time to get right and drunk,” Loras sighed beside her after the encore of  _ America  _ concluded, the standing ovation finally ending. Sansa had barely had a chance to sit down.

She took apart her flute in record time, grabbing her change of clothes and finding a backstage changing room. It was a temporary one, kind of small and cramped, but she was able to switch out of her long, modest dress and into a different one- flowy and dark green, fitted around the waist and hitting right above her knees.

It was modest but not matronly, and her heels complimented her legs well. She’d always had a fear of being too tall in heels, towering over the guys around her; but for once, she didn’t care. If she was a giraffe, then so be it.

She’d be a pretty one, at least, she thought smugly.

The gala was taking place on the other side of the pond, on a huge flat field sheltered by huge, lush trees. The set-up crew had strewn long lengths of fairy lights across the field, which now, after the sun had set, twinkled in the pond beside it. There were already people milling about, and Sansa spotted a few women in long gowns, much more dressed up than she was.

Sansa got nervous, wondering if maybe this was a mistake- maybe she should call up Robb and Theon, meet them for a drink somewhere instead. She knew they’d be thrilled to have their little sister partake in one of their bar hopping pastimes, but she  _ knew  _ she’d be disappointed in herself.

She got this far. She could do this.

She took a deep breath, and went to the gala.

\-------------

“And this is the beautiful Margaery Tyrell,” Loras said with a flourish of his hands, his cheeks already reddened from his drink. He had a handsome, slanted grin on his face, and Sansa blushed when he tipped his head towards her.

His sister was the female version of him- objectively beautiful, all curves and grace to match Loras’s slim figure and cat-like movements. She had large, blue eyes and waist-length brown hair, and she wore a slinky gold dress that exposed large swathes of skin.

Sansa felt like she understood a bit more why the symphony board was so revered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sansa. My brother has gushed on and on about you,” Margaery said, offering a stunning smile to her. To Sansa’s surprise, she didn’t seem unkind. Her words were genuine, like she’d had a legitimate curiosity in meeting the new flautist.

Sansa wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or terrified.

“You too, you’re the first symphony board member I’ve met in the flesh.” Sansa said, shaking her hand. It was soft and thin, just as polished as she was.

“I’m honored to be the first, then.” Margaery said, and she gave a little wink to Sansa before being whisked off in another direction. 

Sansa felt lost then, without Loras or Margaery to usher her around; she took a sip of her drink awkwardly, wrinkling her nose at the taste. It was a bit strong.

Across the field, music started- a string quartet. Sansa idly wondered if it were some of the NYS musicians, and her question was answered as soon as the crowd cleared.

A strong back to her, hair now pulled back into a small bun at the nape of his neck. She hated herself for it, but she definitely knew that back.

It was the rude cellist, now playing alongside three other string players she couldn’t place. It wasn’t exactly her fault- as immature as it was, the sections mostly kept to themselves. 

“They’re quite talented, aren’t they?” A voice said, belonging to a tall, slender man; Sansa first noticed his eyes- grayish green, accented by the salt-and-pepper coloring of his hair. His lips were curved into a wry smile, like he was privy to a joke she hadn’t been let in on.

“Oh, yes. They’re beautiful.” Sansa said, bringing her eyes back to the quartet, just as the cello had taken back the melody. 

“As are you.” The man said, still smiling softly. “I would be lying if I meant just your playing.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, trying to appear humble when something felt off about the interaction; she couldn’t place it, couldn’t place him.

“I’m Petyr Baelish, of the symphony board. I manage the advertising for the symphonic events.” The man- Petyr, explained. He idly thumbed the rim of his wine glass, seemingly caught in thought. Sansa tried not to squirm under his gaze.

“I’m interested to see where you go.” Petyr said smoothly, smiling at her with an intensity that left her uncomfortable. She knew he was referring to her career, but his words still felt off, and left her feeling dirty. It was ridiculous, and she knew she was being a child, but she couldn’t shake the feeling.

She saw the quartet finish their piece, all members standing for a bow. The gala politely applauded, much more constrained and efficient than their evening park crowd. She saw the cellist move, turning to his music to pack up before the next ensemble took their place, and Sansa decided to be something she’d never been before.

Impulsive.

She hurried over to the bar, ordering what she thought would be right. She grabbed the drink once it was finished, making her way over to the far edge of the gala. 

The cellist was already packing up his instrument, taking care to wipe down the fingerboard with a velvet cloth and carefully place the wooden cello back in its case. He couldn’t ever chide her for being too careful with her instrument care again, she thought.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Here.”

The cellist turned, a scowl on his face at bein interrupted. His face changed as soon as she saw her, her arm outstretched, a drink in hand, with a thin-lipped glare at him. He didn’t smile, didn’t grin, just raised an eyebrow at her.

“You were looking a bit red, sir.” Sansa said, not bothering to hide her snark.  _ Her mom would be appalled.  _ “I won’t throw it at you, though.”

As the cellist stepped closer to take the drink, Sansa felt a little voice in the back of her head go off. She knew the man was giant from afar, but it was shocking to see how much bigger he was up close- she was tall, even taller in her heels, and she still barely skimmed his chest. He was almost wider than two of her, and up close she could see the muscles and the veins and all of it-

He cleared his throat this time. “This tastes like shit.”

Hot or not, still an asshole, Sansa mused.

“Rum and coke is a basic. Everyone loves it.” Sansa argued, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn’t miss the way his eyes glanced down to her low neckline, and felt a bit smug.

“Doesn’t mean it’s good,” The man mumbled.

“Is there a name I should call you? Other than  _ that asshole _ ?” She shot back, feeling unusually bold. This wasn’t her- she was prim and proper Sansa, the carefully lady her mom had constructed. But gods, this man made her feel like throwing her hair down and fighting, and a part of her almost  _ liked  _ that.

The man sneered at that, taking a bit to answer. Like he was really considering it.

“Sandor.” Was all he said. No handshake, no smile, no wink- nothing like the people she’d been constantly meeting over the past weeks, nothing like the board members she met tonight. Rude, uncaring, asshole as he was- he was different, and it was a breath of fresh air, in a way.

Sandor threw back the rest of his drink, eyeing her as she raised an eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t waste.” He grumbled.

“So it wasn’t that bad, I take?” She pressed.

“Don’t you have someone else to chirp to?” Sandor asked roughly, throwing his chin out in the direction of the gala members. “Baelish maybe?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at that. So he’d seen Petyr talking to her, had taken note of it. 

“You’re right. I do.” Sansa snapped. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting- of course he’d be rude again, of course he wouldn’t give two shits about her.  _ This  _ was why she shouldn’t be impulsive.

Sandor opened his mouth for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something; his face was so open for a second, almost vulnerable, and it caught her by surprise. 

But then he snapped his mouth closed, picking his case up roughly. His face was back to an impassive half-scowl.

“Go back to your cage, little bird.” 

He left her at the edge of the gala, not bothering to look back at her. Sansa wasn’t sure why that made her stomach twist, or why she felt like following. As sarcastic and cynical as it was- that had been the only conversation that night that had felt genuine, felt natural.

Sansa needed another drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little update! Hoping for a longer one tomorrow. As always, enjoy and feel free to comment! :)

Margaery poured a glass of water from the sink, idly humming to herself.

“Drink this down now, dove. And the aspirin.” She sweetly- but sternly- commanded Sansa. Sansa blinked a few times, swaying in her position on the kitchen stool.

She remembered Sandor leaving, then a drink, then another, and then being ushered into a cab with Margaery Tyrell-

Oh. Ushered into a cab  _ by  _ Margaery Tyrell.

Sansa cringed at that, drinking down the full glass of water. It made her head spin again, but Margaery was brushing her hair off her shoulder with a soothing touch.

“Did I do anything?” Sansa asked quietly, cringing at her words. Gods, her first real symphony gala, and she got stupidly drunk- of course. Of course she’d mess up a great thing.

“Well you certainly looked a little tipsy,” Margaery offered back, smirking back at her. She leaned over Sansa’s kitchen counter, her chin resting on her hands. “Like a little doe, learning to walk.”

Sansa groaned aloud, covering her face with her hands. 

“Oh, don’t sweat it. I called you a cab before you could do anything too embarrassing, and you were at least sober enough to remember your address.” She assured her.

“I still feel awful.” Sansa said.

“Don’t worry about it- it’s the symphony board. Look close enough and they’re all on  _ something- _ Cersei was drunk before the concert even began.” Margaery said cheerily, as if comparing Sansa to the legendary alcoholic, Cersei Lannister, was anything to be proud of. 

At least Sandor hadn’t been there, Sansa thought. He would’ve made fun of her for months after, probably laughing at her immaturity and naivety. 

_ Gods, why should I care? _

“I saw you and Joffrey getting along smashingly, though.” Margaery said, raising an eyebrow and a sly smile in Sansa’s direction.

Sansa faintly remembered conversation with another younger adult, with sandy blonde hair and a confident smile. She didn’t even remember what they talked about, truly.

“Be careful with him. He has a reputation, you know.” Margaery warned, and even though the smile was still on her face, Sansa could see the tightening around her eyes, the steely glint hidden in them.

Sansa nodded mutely, pressing her face into the cold countertop. With the burning in her cheeks, it felt wonderful.

“Well, I’ll leave you to sleep this off. But I already put my number in your phone.” Margaery said with a wink. “I think we’ll get along wonderfully.”

With a swish of her golden skirts and the faint smell of roses, Margaery was out of her small apartment, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Sansa groaned to the empty apartment.

By the time she reached her bed, after a few more desperate cups of water, she was wide awake. She was still a little tipsy, a little light-headed- she never claimed to hold her alcohol well- but decidedly not drunk.

She laid up on her fluffiest pillows, the faint light from outside filtering through her curtains. It was already three in the morning, and she promised she’d meet Robb and Theon at the cafe at eleven. She could probably sleep for a full day, she thought.

The longer she thought, the more her thoughts twisted into things she didn’t like. She wondered if Sandor had a family- did he do brunch? Surely not. She couldn’t see him getting up on the weekends, going out with people and buying overpriced avocado toast and mimosas. He’d probably laugh at her, call her a spoiled Stark girl all over again.

It made her fume, her anger suddenly making her feel hot all over. She tossed her blankets off, twisting her hands in her sheets.

What was even more infuriating was his damn self- his body was in ridiculously good shape, all hardened lines and a broad chest that tapered  _ perfectly  _ into a strong core and she was suddenly wondering more things about said core, wondering if all of him were truly that big and if so how it would feel and-

That was how Sansa found herself fishing out her vibrator at three am, on a Sunday morning. 

\-------------------

Theon was unbearably himself at brunch.

“You are so hungover.” He laughed, poking at Sansa’s arm. She resisted the urge to snap at him, knowing it was just Theon being Theon. 

She wasn’t entirely hungover. Sansa always felt crappy after a night of drinking, yes, but it was a little more than that. 

It was shame. She felt ashamed. Not only for getting drunk at her first symphony gala, but also for coming hard this morning to Sandor’s name on her lips.

Gods. Even just  _ thinking  _ about it made her cheeks burn red, wanting to crawl back into her bed and never come out. How could she even face him on Monday?

“How’d you get home?” Robb said, ever the older brother after the teasing had passed. 

“Margaery Tyrell helped me get home.” Sansa said sheepishly, chasing down her confession with a gulp of orange juice. She had most definitely skipped on the mimosas that Robb and Theon had insisted on, smelling the faint whiff of champagne and feeling her stomach churn. 

“The Margaery Tyrell? Interesting.” Theon said, giving a dramatic thinking face as he shot Robb a very pointed look. Robb rolled his eyes, sighing into his drink.

“Could that be the same one, perhaps, dear Robb?” Theon continued, swirling a finger around the rim of his glass. Robb glared.

“You know her?” Sansa gaped.

“She managed an ensemble I played for out of LA, few years out of conservatory.” Robb said quietly, suddenly uncharacteristically sheepish. Sansa perked up- her brother didn’t have a shy bone in his body, so this was  _ very  _ intriguing.

“Oh, there’s more than that.” Theon said with a wild grin. “They had a wonderful, passionate night of nonstop love making-”

“Dear God, Theon, it’s not even noon yet.” Robb sighed.

“-and our dear Robb was head over heels for the brunette beauty, deadset on making her his-”

Sansa snickered. 

“But alas.” Theon said somberly, looking off into the distance with a tight-lipped frown. “She left town, never to be seen again. Until Sansa’s symphony concert.”

“It wasn’t that dramatic.” Robb snapped, rubbing his face over his hands.

“I don’t know Robb. Sounds pretty tragic to me.” Sansa threw back, giving her older brother a sly grin. He glared at her, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing. Theon just likes to make little love stories in his head.” 

Theon and Robb began to bicker back and forth between themselves, but Sansa had idly drowned them out, stirring her spoon around her cup of coffee. She watched the park outside the cafe, surprisingly calm for a Sunday morning in the city. There was a couple pushing a baby stroller, a man being led along by a tiny dog, another man running-

_ Oh gods. _

Sandor was running by the cafe, dressed in a sweat-soaked black t-shirt and a pair of running shorts. Even his legs were muscular, just as hairy and big as the rest of him, all tanned skin and bulky muscles. His hair was pulled back again, in a small tail at the base of his scalp. Even from her seat, she could see a few strands of hair escaping it, stuck to his face with sweat. His mouth was open, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes-

Looking straight at her.

Sansa thought she’d possibly combust then, her first thoughts going to precisely three am that morning. Gods above, maybe she just desperately needed to get laid. Needed to find someone, sleep with them, pretend she can’t hear her mom’s disappointment in her head, and then forget Sandor Clegane ever existed. Easy four step process.

Sandor didn’t offer her a smile, which was great, because she would’ve been even more disturbed by that. He just looked hard at her, his eyes going to her legs- bare, because she’d picked out her favorite sundress. Yellow, with white and green flowers, a bit short when she crossed her legs. 

She almost wanted to feel a bit smug, a bit of a desperate reassurance that it wasn’t only her feeling stupidly lustful. But then his eyes raked over to Robb and Theon, both still chattering away mindlessly, and she could’ve sworn she saw his brow furrow, his fists tighten.

And then he had ran past the cafe, out of sight.

“You good, Sans? Look like you might pass out over there.” Robb said, giving her an odd look.

Sansa fiddled with her necklace, suddenly feeling unbearably hot in her seat. She felt restless.

“Yeah, yeah. Just hungover.” She said, knowing that they’d see through that.

But surprisingly, Robb didn’t push it.

“I bet you’re just flustered by all those romantic stories I’ve been spilling,” Theon said, giving her another of his rakish grins. Sansa rolled her eyes, but Robb snapped back before she could.

“Theon, your idea of romantic is having sex in an actual bed for once.” 

\---------------

Monday’s rehearsal was surprisingly short, for once.

Sansa had walked in to a folder of new music for the upcoming concert, and another chair in her section. The new second flautist had a very severe look to her, all sharp lines and willowy figure. She had long, dark hair and bright blue eyes.

“Hi, I’m Myranda.” She said, her voice odd to Sansa. She didn’t seem unkind, but certainly was not as open as Shae had been. Sansa felt a bit of childish feelings hit her, realizing that Myranda was now seated firmly between her and Shae. She’d miss her odd little comments.

Myranda didn’t talk much, mainly kept to herself. Sansa found the woman watching her a few times, though, as she warmed up. Despite herself, she felt a bit under pressure; as if the woman’s eyes were scrutinizing.

But Sandor had taken the stage, and Sansa suddenly found her music much more captivating than anything else around her. Maybe if she focused hard enough, she could get through the rehearsal without thinking anything too ridiculous.

As she moved over to the second piece, a shadow fell across her stand.

“Hello, Sansa.” Joffrey stood over her stand, a wry smile on his face. 

“Hi.” Sansa offered back, suddenly feeling very sheepish. Gods knew what she had said to him during the gala.

But he seemed rather laid back and cheerful, so she assumed nothing too awful.

“I realized I never got your number on Saturday. You did promise it to me, after all.” Joffrey said, and Sansa felt herself squirm a little under his unrelenting gaze. He was handsome, yes- a man her mother would’ve always wanted her to have. Boyish features, sandy blonde hair, and long, long eyelashes. But his words felt a bit forced, as if she didn’t have a choice.

She sighed internally- she was being silly again, seeing things that weren’t there.

“Yeah, of course.” Sansa said, grinning back at him. She scrawled her number on a sticky note she fished from her flute bag, adding a little smiley face at the end. 

“I’ll be sure to use it,” Joffrey said, giving her another glance over his shoulder as he walked away. It was an approving glance, skirting over her form. It didn’t feel like when Sandor did it, though- it felt odd. 

Gods, she was so out of it. She’d let her mind run wild when she shouldn’t have, and now she was here seeing red flags with perfectly good guys, while going crazy over a man previously known as That Asshole.

Tyrion’s voice shook her out of it. 

“Let’s do a quick cold read of Mendelssohn’s  _ Italian Symphony  _ and get out of here early, shall we?”

Sansa was thankful to finally dive back into something she had control over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's a long update of Sansa being more than a little conflicted. I can't help it- although I love the fluff, I need the angst too, and I refuse to believe that Sansa and Sandor are 100% fluff. But we'll get there slowly, I promise! I just love Sansa not being entirely put together, and not being a perfectly lady- especially when it's because of a certain Hound :)
> 
> Here's a spotify playlist for the songs I've mentioned so far in the story, as well as a few I plan to use in the future. The main piece I describe in the chapter is Beautiful Mechanical, by yMusic, one of my FAVORITE contemporary ensembles. Please go listen to them!!   
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4NV7hpfJQDIqWcGRLLurw9?si=_Vsuvo78RRGkalexrGQtJA
> 
> Happy reading!

“Flutes, please- more bird-like, perhaps?” Tyrion mused, pausing to rub his hand over his beard, deep in thought as he addressed them. “Like little doves, little birds above the garden.”

Sansa bit her tongue, feeling Sandor’s eyes on her. She wasn’t going to look, wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction.  _ Little bird. _

“From the top,” Tyrion commanded, and with a whisk of his baton they were back to the beginning, all wild traded between the woodwinds. It wasn’t that Sansa hated  _ Pini di Roma,  _ far from it- but now being compared to a bird had a much different connotation to it.

The horns announced their arrival in the form of a high pitched wail, sliding through the runs effortlessly. It never failed to amaze her, this symphony; she was used to always feeling like one of the best, always knowing she was  _ better.  _

Now, she fit into the crowd of extreme talents quite well. She wasn’t sure if that was relieving, or disappointing. 

\-------------

“And that’s how I beat the best trumpet in the South,” Joffrey said smugly, his smile almost a snarl; he remedied it by stuffing another spoonful of steak into his face.

Sansa smiled, albeit a little tensely. She wasn’t sure how one responded to that- she had her own stories of success, little fires that kept burning inside her, moving her forward to the next big thing. But she wasn’t about to go around sharing it to everyone. In this field, they were a dime a dozen. Irrelevant.

“You do have a wonderful tone.” Sansa commented, settling on an easy response. 

Joffrey had texted her the night after she’d reluctantly signed over her number; he had been kind, complimenting the dress she’d worn to rehearsal that day. She idly wondered if he noticed anything outside of what she looked like, but decided that was just her being too nitpicky. 

And here there were, a week later, grabbing dinner at one of the nicest restaurants downtown. She’d told him anywhere would do, preferably just a casual cup of coffee somewhere. But Joffrey had insisted she be spoiled by him, and so she agreed. 

Young Sansa would’ve adored it, preening at all the attention and gifts he gave her. 

Current Sansa wasn’t sure how she felt about it all.

“If only Oberyn would just step down. I deserve principal more than him.” Joffrey said, stabbing his food angrily. Sansa paused her fork midway to her mouth, wondering if she’d seen that little tantrum or simply made it up in her head.

“He’s quite…..” Sansa paused a second. Oberyn was a flawless trumpet player, and there was nothing to say bad about him. So she lied. “Squeaky at times.”

Sansa instantly felt terrible- Oberyn was so kind to her, even if he was a bit flirtatious. He was a marvelous musician and she had no place ever criticizing him- but she felt that need to please bubble up inside of her.

Joffrey gave her a broad grin, and it was almost enough, almost worth the guilt bubbling up in her chest.

“Yes, I know  _ exactly  _ what you mean. Between him and Brienne the Beauty right in my ear at all times, I may go mad.” He responded. Sansa hid her frown behind her hand.

Brienne was first trombone in a brass section dominated by men, most of them a good deal older than her. She was incredibly kind, and remarkably brave in her pursuits. 

Sansa couldn’t form up a lie for that one.

“Do you have any other hobbies?” Sansa offered instead, hoping desperately for a change in topic.

Joffrey shrugged. “I occasionally hunt. My family owns a large bit of land in Texas, and we go there every year for a large hunt. Sometimes even a bit more exotic hunts, too, in Africa.”

Sansa had never hunted a day in her life, and therefore couldn’t pass much judgement. But she immediately had a picture of Joffrey, a crossbow in one hand, the tusk of a slain elephant in the other.

She felt like she’d be sick.

“That’s interesting.” Sansa said weakly, stirring around what was left on her plate.

The waiter chose that minute to come back, saving her for whatever detailed exploit Joffrey was sure to share next. He had a thin menu in his hand, already beginning to hand them to Sansa.

Joffrey made a noise right as Sansa’s hand instinctively reached out to receive the menu.

“That’s not necessary.” Joffrey said quickly, shoving the menu back into the waiter’s confused hands. “She’ll have the tiramisu, and I’ll have the cheesecake.”

And for some reason, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Actually, I’ll have to get going.” Sansa said smoothly. 

“Excuse me?” Joffrey asked, raising an eyebrow. Sansa smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress as she stood.

“It’s an emergency, I’m sorry.” Sansa responded, trying her best to look sympathetic; but even she couldn’t fake it then.

“It doesn’t sound like it.” Joffrey said rudely, crossing his arms over his chest.  _ Like a child. _

“That’s too bad.” Sansa shot back, Joffrey’s mouth gaping at her words. It was obviously he was not used to that response for women, apparently. He sputtered a moment, throwing his silk napkin down onto his plate.

“Sansa-” He started.

“I would’ve ordered the lemon cakes.” She snapped, fleeing the restaurant before he could say more.

\----------------

It was already dark outside when she left, the streetlamps working to keep the sidewalks fully lit. Being a Saturday night, the city was still bustling, couples and families and friends all walking around her. 

Even being surrounded by people, Sansa was hit with a sudden, powerful feeling of loneliness. She’d avoided it for the most part since she’d moved to the city, but after Theon and Robb had hopped back on their planes, the ache had started festering up inside her. And now, after a godawful date with someone she couldn’t actually get away from- she felt lonelier than she had in a long time.

She should’ve hailed a cab, but the sidewalks seemed so appealing at the moment. She needed to walk, needed to clear her head. She could already feel the tears pricking at her eyes, knew her makeup was probably already smudging.

Sansa let her feet carry her, knowing her apartment was more than a few blocks away. It’d probably be close to an hour walk, but she wanted it. Needed it, even.

She missed Robb and Theon, missed Arya, missed Bran. Gods, she even missed Jon and Rickon a bit, too, even with their lack of closeness. She missed her Mom, even if she wasn’t the same woman she once was.

Sansa missed her father, too. That one hurt a bit more.

Before she knew it, she was just a few blocks away from her apartment. She walked past a bright store front and then paused- it was a tiny bakery, one she’d been meaning to visit since she moved. Its walls were a deep, comforting yellow, dark red brick behind the counter. She was walking inside before she could stop herself.

“Hi.” Sansa croaked at the lady behind the counter, cringing at the tone of her voice. She sounded like a downright mess.

But the lady smiled back kindly, and Sansa felt alright.

“Can I get two of your lemon cakes, please?” Sansa said politely, fumbling with her wallet. The lady reached down to grab the pastries, and Sansa’s mouth watered. They were so light and fluffy, a smattering of powdered sugar on the surface- they looked absolutely delicious.

She was giving her card to the lady when another card slapped down onto the table in front of her. Sansa saw the hand first, the tanned skin and hairy knuckles, and she didn’t have to look at his fingertips to know there’d be calluses on them, thick from cello strings.

“Add one of the dog treats and a black coffee on there as well.” Sandor grumbled from behind her.

The lady raised an eyebrow at Sansa, quietly asking if she was okay with it-

“Please.” Sandor said, his voice tight from the faked politeness. The lady went ahead with it.

Sansa was too shocked to say anything, could barely look at him right now. She could smell him, from right behind her, and the thought sent a shock through her, settling in her thighs. He must’ve just came from a run, because he smelled of sweat and musk, and she hated herself in the way that she liked it.

The lady handed a little box to Sansa, containing her lemon cakes, and a smaller one to Sandor. Oh yeah, the dog treats.

“Is this your way of calling me a bitch?” Sansa asked. Normally she wouldn’t have been so forward, wouldn’t have used the language- but gods, after the evening she had with Joffrey, if Sandor was looking for a fight then he would have one.

“I have a dog.” Sandor said simply, raising his eyebrow at her assumption. Sansa turned red.

“What are you even doing here?” Sansa replied. Surely he hadn’t followed her-

“I was running. Always pick up a treat for my mutt on Saturdays.” He answered. Sansa gritted her teeth- he always had an answer for her, always had an explanation to make her feel like an idiot, and if he didn’t stop looking like  _ that  _ she was going to go mad.

“Are you okay, girl?” Sandor asked at her silence.

“I’m not a  _ girl, _ Sandor.” Sansa snapped back, shoving a finger at his chest. She was a bit too short, the fingertip hitting instead a (tight) stomach. She ignored that detail. 

Sandor didn’t reply to that, instead taking a swig of his black coffee, seemingly unaffected by her pointing finger. But she’d seen him stiffen, seen the tightness in his jaw.

“If you’d treat me with some goddamn respect for once, that’d be absolutely wonderful.” Sansa snapped, not done with her tirade quite yet.

“Don’t ruffle your feathers, little bird.” Sandor responded back, that same damn eyebrow twitching on the unscarred side of his face. He seemed so apathetic then, so mocking and demeaning that she looked him straight in the eyes, scars and all.

“Fuck. You.” Sansa spat out with a stab at his chest. She knew she was making a scene in the bakery, knew she probably couldn’t come back, but fuck it. She was alone and she was scared and most of all she was  _ mad.  _

Sansa rushed out of the bakery, almost knocking into a couple as they entered. She had her box of lemon cakes firmly under her arm, the other hand trying desperately to wipe the tears away before they fell from her face. As formidable as she tried to seem, she knew she was never as tough as she wanted to be. When her emotions went wild, she always had a hard time holding back tears.

There was a hand encircling her elbow, pulling her back almost roughly. Sansa almost dropped her lemon cakes, a gasp coming out of her mouth.

The people around her stared openly, wondering whether to help her or not; but Sandor didn’t pay them any attention.

“What’s going on?” Sandor asked again, but there was no eyebrow raised, no smug snarl on his face. It was just him, his face as focused as when he had a cello between his thighs.

Sansa gritted her teeth, begging herself silently not to cry. 

“I-” Sansa started, suddenly feeling like a little kid. He’d laugh at her.

“Go on.” He responded.

“I had an awful date. With Joffrey Baratheon.” Sansa said quickly, her eyes staring down at her heels. She could feel blisters already forming on her ankles.

“Is that it?” Sandor continued. Surprisingly, without a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“No. I- I miss my family. I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere. I miss-” Her voice shook a little, and she bit her bottom lip hard. “I miss my father.”

“He the one that passed in that car accident?” Sandor asked, a bit callously; but she found that for once, she didn’t mind. He wasn’t putting false courtesies into his words, wasn’t trying to make her into something for his gain. He was just being Sandor.

Sansa nodded, wiping away the last few tears from her cheeks.

“C’mon, Sansa.” He said, a light hand on her elbow now as he led her somewhere. She was almost too shocked for her feet to move forward- he’d said her name. Not  _ little bird.  _ Not  _ girl.  _

_ Sansa. _

“Where are we going?” She asked after a moment.

“There’s a little park near my apartment. Stranger loves to shit there.” Sandor said, almost mindlessly. He looked into the distance, above the heads of those around her, and she wondered what had taken such a hold on his mind.

“Stranger?” She echoed.

“Dog. The fatass that loves these treats.” Sandor shook his bag of homemade dog treats for good measure.

“Oh.” Sansa said simply, suddenly feeling sheepish. He was still in his running clothes, still in a damned tight black shirt and running shorts, and she was still in her nice navy dress. She imagined they made quite a sight, and she was wondering if she and Sandor could even function with one another without arguing.

Soon they came to a little clearing, a few large trees in the middle of the urban jungle; it was a tiny little park, charming in its own way. Sandor led her over to a park bench, somewhat out of the way of all the foot traffic.

Sansa sat on one end of the bench, Sandor reluctantly taking the other end- there was a good foot of space between them, but it still felt ridiculously close. Even with the cool evening chill, she felt a hotness under her skin. 

“Did no one tell you about that Baratheon cunt?” Sandor responded, finishing off his black coffee right then and there. He seemed oddly peaceful in that park, so unlike the man who had yelled at her to get off the stage after her first rehearsal. 

“Margaery Tyrell warned me. But I just thought-” Sansa faltered. “I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to not feel so….”

Sansa grimaced at her words, squeezing her eyes closed shut. She felt like such a child again, and she was waiting for him to scoff at her, look down on her. He couldn’t of been  _ that  _ much older than her, but his words and his demeanor made her seem like a teenager in comparison.

“Alone.” Sandor finished for her, not a question. He’d known exactly what she meant.

“That makes me sound like a child.” Sansa said bitterly. She felt her stomach grumble, and took a look at the partially crumbled box at her side- luckily, the lemon cakes were spared from her previous one-sided battle with Sandor.

“Your words,” Sandor grumbled, and Sansa frowned at him. In a way, it made her feel a bit safer, coming into comfortable territory- the grumpy man in front of her was exactly what she expected now, instead of someone who actually cared about her wellbeing.

It was bittersweet.

“Would you like a lemon cake?” Sansa offered, holding out a yellow pastry to him. “You bought them, after all.”

“Don’t like sweets.” He said. Sansa gaped at him.

“I knew you were an asshole, but I didn’t know you were a  _ monster. _ ” She responded, stuffing her face with the first sickly-sweet bite of a lemon cake.

It wasn’t her Mom’s lemon cake, but it was delicious regardless; it melted in her mouth, a bit of powdered sugar coating her lips. Sansa moaned to herself, tipping her head back to thank whatever gods had dreamt up lemon cakes.

She opened her eyes to find Sandor staring at her- at her lips, to be precise, his eyes watching her like a hawk. Sansa felt a little braver, tipping her chin up towards him.

“Rethinking my offer?” She asked, her voice laced with a tone that was so not Sansa Stark.

_ What is wrong with me?  _ She thought, in the back of her mind. Something about that man made her act like nothing she’d ever been before, like someone her mother would weep over. A cursing, impolite mess, not a perfectly presented lady.

Sandor looked away from her, and she had to blink a few times in the dim light- was it just her, or were his cheeks  _ red?  _

“Fine.” He said, his voice deeper than normal. 

Sansa smiled victoriously, dipping her hand back into the box to fish out the remaining lemon cake.

She gingerly laid it in his outstretched palm, their fingertips touching briefly- Sandor jerked away, an almost-snarl on his face.

Sansa felt a sting at that, but didn’t bring it to light. She was just disappointed at not having another lemon cake, was all. Nothing more.

“It’s goddamn sweet.” Sandor said, cringing at his first bite. The look on his face was comical, one she’d never seen him wear before- she giggled despite herself.

“They’re wonderful. It’s not my fault you’re so deprived of happiness.” She said smugly, finishing off what was left of her pastry. Sandor shook his head, but continued to eat the rest of his- she wondered if his response was just a farce, not willing to let her win. Stupid, stubborn man.

Sansa wiped a finger through the leftover icing on her pink wrapper, sticking the finger straight into her mouth. She missed the sweet dessert already, idly wondering how long it would be until she could go back. How long until they forgot her outburst at Sandor.

He was watching her again, and this time when she met his eyes, fingertip still in between her lips, he looked away quickly. He jumped up from his seat, turning around to face her.

“I have to get home.” Sandor said quickly. “I- uh, dog. Got to give him his treat.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sansa said. She felt a bit of disappointment in her at his words.  _ Only because you ran out of lemon cakes, of course. _

“I’ll walk you back.” He said.

Sansa threw her wrapper away. “I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“You’re tiny. Someone could pick you up and run with you.” He responded back, his voice barely more than a grumble as the walked out of the tiny park.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. “Is that  _ concern  _ in your voice?”

“Damnit, girl. Walk yourself.” He grumbled, gritting his teeth at her. They had been mildly civil minutes before, and suddenly it was back to normal. Sansa wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.

“Fine.” Sansa said, walking with her chin high. She wouldn’t let him see her scared, even if the streets had quieted considerably since they’d been at the bakery. She had a can of mace in her purse, and she could take care of herself. Robb had tried to show her a few moves when she was a teenager, and if she thought hard enough she might be able to replicate them….

“Are you following me?” She asked, noticing that the large man had continued walking beside her for the past two minutes.

“My apartment is right here, girl. Calm down.” He snapped back, throwing a finger over his shoulder to the brown-brick apartment building behind him.

Her apartment was just around the corner- she had no idea he lived so close, and had no idea what to do with that information. She did know that it sent a little thrill down her spine, and that thrill made her frown at him, because he’d caused it.

“Fine. Have a good night, Sandor.” Sansa said snarkily, turning on her heel to leave him at his apartment. She didn’t look back- she refused to. She was Sansa Stark, and he was a rude man that occasionally acted civil. Nothing more.

But she couldn’t stop that little itch in the back of her head, that compulsion; so when she turned the corner, she shot a look back to his building to see his dark form still standing there, right out of view of the street lamp.

Watching her. Making sure she got home safe.

She closed the lobby door to her apartment building with a loud slam behind her.

\----------------

“Goddamnit, Renly. Can you just for  _ once  _ tune to my A?” Loras snapped, a reed sticking from the corner of his mouth as he stared down the principal clarinet.

Renly, for all his calm and dignified manners, glared the man down with an almost-snarl on his face. Sansa had never seen the two men fight before, and definitely not in as intimate a setting as her own woodwind quintet.

“I need a break.” Renly responded, leaving his clarinet behind to saunter out to the lobby, leaving the rest of his quintet behind.

“Me too.” Loras all but grumbled, following quickly out the door the other man had left from.

“Lover’s quarrel.” Sam said quietly across from her, shaking his head softly. His face was still reddened from their earlier playing, his neckstrap keeping his bassoon hanging off him.

“Lovers?” Sansa asked, gaping at him. 

“You didn’t know?” Sam responded kindly, a grin on his face.

It all clicked into place; all the looks, the banter between the two, the constant following one another. Sansa felt so silly; she assumed they were just good friends. 

“They keep it quiet. After all, the press would have a field day with it.” Sam explained.

“They keep it quiet to everyone  _ but  _ us.” Stannis grumbled from beside him, taking apart his french horn, shaking the water from the valves. The more Sansa learned about Stannis, the more she realized how grumpy of a man he was, in his stern body language and frowning expressions. He was the oldest of their quintet, easily.

“I suppose that’s the end of rehearsal, then.” Sansa responded with a little grin. 

She almost went to put her flute away, before remembering herself; she had one more rehearsal today, one last ensemble meeting. It was the first time she was meeting with the sextet, playing a more contemporary piece. She had no idea what the instrumentation was, but the piece had her curious.

“Are you playing in the sextet?” She asked the two men in front of her; they both looked at each other before shaking their heads with a shrug.

“Haven’t heard of a sextet. Must be new.” Stannis commented. He was already out the door before Sam had even taken apart his bassoon, but that was Stannis- ever the busybody.

After Sam had left, Loras and Renly had finally came back to put up their instruments; she tried not to ponder too hard on where they could’ve been.

With the room empty, she began to arrange the chairs. She wasn’t exactly sure how they’d want to be set up- she supposed that depended on the instrumentation, which she  _ still  _ didn’t know about, but if she could help at all, she may as well.

The door of the auditorium opened up, and Sansa squinted against the light to see who it was. It was a large form, a tall, thin top of a case rising above his head-

“I have the stage today.” Sansa called out to Sandor, hoping her voice carried enough spite to the back of the auditorium. She still remembered him licking lemon cakes from his lips, still remembered him standing just out of the light of the street lamp to watch over her.

“What a coincidence.” Sandor said dryly. “I’m here for a sextet rehearsal.”

Sansa frowned, turning away from him so he couldn’t see the redness in her cheeks. She busied herself with her music, trying to keep her mind occupied as well. She’d never played up close to him before, never been that close to him while making music. The thought almost  _ scared  _ her, in a ridiculously stupid way; he was just so massive and strong, and when he played cello he laid into the instrument. She would’ve pitied the instrument, if the music he made wasn’t so hauntingly beautiful.

But now she’d see it up close. Which was fine, completely fine, she told herself. 

There were already a few other musicians filtering in through the back, so she didn’t have to worry about being alone with him for too long.

“Hi Sansa,” Podrick Payne said cheerily from beside her. She’d talked to him briefly between concerts, but had yet to really talk with the young second clarinet player. He had a round, kind face, and dark brown eyes; when she looked at him, his cheeks turned a light pink.

“Have you had a chance to look over the piece yet?” She asked Podrick, trying to make small conversation as the group unpacked. She couldn’t help her eyes wandering over to Sandor’s seat, on the other side of Podrick, and she watched him lean over to grab his cello from the ground, the hem of his shirt lifting up to expose a bit of skin-

“-but yeah, that’s about it. And you?” Podrick asked, still eagerly smiling at her. Sansa blinked, missing everything the man had said.

Luckily, Oberyn cleared his throat from beside her, his fingers rolling over the keys of his trumpet.

“Ready?” Oberyn offered everyone a dashingly handsome smile. 

Sansa nodded quickly, looking around the little sextet they’d assembled- Podrick and Oberyn were on either side of her, Sandor on the other side of Podrick, and a violist and violinist on the other side of Sandor.

She hadn’t met them yet- the violinist was fidgety, his fingertips anxiously tapping against his leg. He was very pale, she noticed, with dark, dark hair; on his other side, the violist was seemingly indifferent to her surroundings. She had mousy brown hair and a slight grimace on her plain features.

“First off, has everyone met everyone here?” Oberyn asked kindly, glancing around the half-circle. He had already taken the role of the leader, falling into the position nicely.

Sansa wasn’t going to say yes to that question, suddenly intimidated with the surrounding group; she’d only played in small groups with those in her own woodwind section, and certainly not Sandor Clegane. She scoffed at herself- that shouldn’t matter. She knew she was talented, had the hours to prove it- but she still had that anxiety in her chest, little butterflies in her stomach.

Oberyn gave Sansa a small smile regardless, and she realized his comment had been solely for her; he went ahead and pointed out the people around them. 

“We have Ramsay, Osha, Sandor, Podrick, Sansa, and of course, me.” Oberyn said smoothly. “Now, let’s make some beautiful music, shall we?”

Being the closest thing to an oboe, Sansa gave an A for the group to tune to; the strings carefully listened, reaching down and over to tighten and loosen various strings. Podrick and Oberyn both leaned towards her, carefully adjusting their embouchures to match. 

“I start.” Sandor said quickly, not bothering to look around at them; Oberyn nodded patiently, leaning back into his chair.

And so Sandor began the start of  _ Beautiful Mechanical,  _ starting with a furious, repetitive cello tune. It was practically a growl, a repeating tune that reached the guttural lows of the instrument. Watching the swift, rough moves of his bow, powered by his muscular arms, she realized it suited him.

All he gave Podrick was a quick side-glance before the clarinet joined him, a deep counter-melody to his mechanical jig.

And soon Oberyn was taking the show from them, adding a jaunty trumpet to the mix; Ramsay quickly picked up the repetitive riffs, Osha joining a few lines later to add a cascading run.

And then Sansa was part of the group, and for a minute, they were all a well-oiled machine together, the same body with many hands. And when Sandor and Podrick dropped out, the bass leaving the high trumpet and flute melodies cascading above, she felt her stomach drop with it, too.

By the time they had ended, Sansa had a broad grin on her face. She felt like a little child, discovering her love for small ensembles again; but she couldn’t help it. The most beautiful thing about music was the shared, innocent love it fostered.

And when she looked over, Sandor was watching her, and although he didn’t smile, he looked  _ light.  _ He looked as if his worries had temporarily been lifted from his shoulders, looked vulnerable and open. And for once, he didn’t look away when she caught his eyes.

For a moment, Sansa felt a little less lonely. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta admit. When I started this story, I was thinking more along the lines of a fluffy music story with the main characters debating who the best composer was, listening to classical music under the stars, etc. But how could I not fully utilize TorturedCellistSandor? Angst, angst galore.
> 
> Also, I fucking ADORE all the comments I get!! I may not get a chance to respond to them but just know they make my entire day and always make me want to write ASAP. Speaking of, I'm considering taking one-shot requests and piling them all into a story. Prefer SanSan, but I'll take Sansa/Everyone, because let's face it. This girl has chemistry with everyone.

“I just don’t see why it’s necessary.” Margaery huffed, pinching off a bit of sugary cinnamon roll from Sansa’s plate. Sansa swatted at her just a minute too late.

“Because she likes the power.” Sansa said simply, settling for a long drink of coffee instead.

“That’s all Cersei fucking Lannister lives off of- power and wine.” Margaery snarled, not bothering to hide the contempt in her voice.

“I’m sure she can’t do  _ that _ much damage.” Sansa assured her, even though it was a half-hearted comment. If she were anything like her son, she was a nightmare, but Margaery surely already knew that. 

“Director of the symphony board? Yeah, she’s gonna be even more of a controlling bitch now. We don’t need some fancy director- what we  _ need  _ is some civility.” Margaery shot back, throwing down a few bills on the table in front of her. 

Sansa had been spending more and more time around Margaery over the past few weeks, ever since she’d found her number in her contact list, with a little red heart at the end. After she’d had her godawful date with Joffrey, she’d finally texted her number.

_ Hey, it’s Sansa. I did something stupid. _

__ Margaery had laughed so hard she’d had tears streaming down her face when Sansa recounted dramatically leaving the restaurant; while she knew she made the wrong decision, going on a date with the guy even after her warning, she couldn’t help but grin at Margaery’s response. Maybe that’s all it took- bonding over the same blonde douchebag. 

“Hey, at least you realized it after only one date.” Margaery had told her, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. “Took me almost a year.”

Sansa shuddered to know what that must’ve been like.

“Sans, you got a good thirty minutes to be changed and get back on stage.” Margaery said, snapping her fingers in front of Sansa’s face. Ever the professional, planning lady.

“Thanks, mom.” Sansa grinned, slapping her hands away.

“If you show up a minute late and it’s my fault-” Margaery shuddered ,”-the bitch queen herself will kill me.”

\---------------

Sansa traded her Saturday morning outfit for a more casual version of her concert black attire; just a pair of fitted, dark slacks, a willowy black top, and her favorite pair of heels. She added her mother’s favorite pearls on top, stopping in front of the dressing room mirror to run her fingers over them.

Her mom had pushed it into her hands last time she visited, telling Sansa to wear it to her symphony concerts. In truth, it was the first time she’d pulled them out- for some reason, it had felt  _ wrong  _ before, like she was playing dress-up as someone she wasn’t. But now it felt like it belonged.

“Showtime in five minutes, Miss Stark.” The backstage director said, clutching a clipboard to her chest. “Violin trio first, then sextet, wood quintet, saxophone quartet, string quartet, end with brass quintet. Sound good?”

Sansa nodded, offering the nervous lady a smile. She smiled back, a bit strained, before talking back into her headset.

“Tell Ramsay we will  _ not  _ be taking intermission between the trio and the sextet, it’s the first act for gods’ sake-”

The lady’s voice carried down the hallway as she left, her heels clicking behind her.

Sansa took a deep breath, running a hand down the delicate open-holed keys of her flute. First symphony concert, down. Now, first small ensemble concert. In an hour and a half, she’d be done with the afternoon concert, probably off to grab happy-hour margaritas with Margaery. She could do this.

By the time she made it to the rehearsal hall, the string quartet had already began playing on the main stage. The rehearsal hall, tucked into a corner of the giant facility, was far enough away that they didn’t have to worry about interference.

Which was good, because Loras and Renly were already arguing.

“Thank the gods- I though you weren’t coming!” Loras gaped at Sansa, grabbing the sleeve of her billowy blouse. His hands got caught in the gauzy fabric as Sansa took her arm back quickly.

“I just needed a minute.” Sansa said, a bit defensively- just because he and Renly were still going through their quarrel/breakup/fight/gods-know-what, going on a month now, didn’t mean that it needed to be taken out on her.

“Gods,” Loras said, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’m just stressed.”

Sansa nodded back. “It’s fine. Just take a few deep breaths- we’re on after my sextet.”

She turned on her heel to find her sextet, Renly already grumbling behind her.

“I told you she was coming, you daft cow-”

Sansa rolled her eyes, letting out a puff of pent-up energy. Last thing she needed was them getting into a fistfight in the middle of the  _ Libertango. _

__ She saw Oberyn waving from the edge of the room, half of her sextet tucked into a little corner among the other ensemble musicians.

“Hello, love. You look gorgeous,” Oberyn said, offering her that same handsome smile he always wore; he always knew how to deliver a compliment without an ounce of sleaziness, always seeming genuine and admiring. 

Sansa still blushed a little, nodding her head to him. “You look handsome as always, Oberyn.”

“Yes, yes. We all look very bloody good.” Sandor grumbled from beside her, clutching his bow tightly in one hand- she could she his knuckles turning white, trying to seem impassive as he surveyed the room.

And she couldn’t disagree with him on that- instead of the normal suit and tie they wore, he was instead in a long-sleeve, black button up, and when he turned it pulled tight across his chest. 

She looked away, her face red; Oberyn watched her with a knowing smile.

“Ramsey and Osha are on the stage already, with the violin quintet. Would you mind giving us an A, love?” Oberyn said, already raising the tip of his trumpets to his lip, his dark eyes watching her expectantly.

“Let me get my fucking cello,” Sandor snarled at the man- Sansa was taken aback at his roughness. She’d barely ever seen him interact with the rest of the symphony, save for Tormund Giantsbane and occasionally Tyrion and Bronn. But now he’d said more words than she’d heard in the past three rehearsals, all mostly a growl at Oberyn.

Sansa waited patiently for him to grab his cello, the darkened, weathered wood catching the gleam of the overhead lights. It was a beautiful cello, if not a bit unconventionally gorgeous- it was obviously very old, a few scratches marring its interesting surface.

Oberyn cleared his throat rather politely.

Sansa gave a clear A, making sure the intonation was as crystal clear as could be, an easier base for them to match. At some Podrick had appeared, his round cheeks bright red.

“Trio just finished,” He reported, offering them a nervous, broad smile. “We’re on.”

\----------

Oberyn led them on to the stage, smiling broadly to the audience as he rounding the half-circle of chairs, passing by each one to find his own. Sansa followed him, without the same overwhelming charisma that seemed to follow the man; she offered the audience a small smile, grateful the lights were so bright that they only seemed like silhouettes.

“Darling, can we have another A, please?” Oberyn whispered quietly to her.

Sansa retuned the sextet, trying to ease the tension in her neck. Sandor watched her as his hands skimmed down the strings, testing the higher harmonics to her A natural; his expression was unreadable.

Oberyn stood and the sextet followed, giving the starting bow before reseating.

Sandor began the cello line, starting the furious melody anew.

\-----------

The piece passed in almost record time, barely a blink of an eye to Sansa; the crowd applauded loudly when they finished. She missed the sound of Robb and Theon, acting like fools in the audience.

But the rest of her sextet was quickly ushered off the stage, trading places with her woodwind quintet. This time, Loras gave the tuning A, and although charming, his stage presence was much more dull than Oberyn’s.

They began Piazolla’s  _ Libertango,  _ arranged for woodwind quintet. They passed their tangoistic solos around the ensemble, Loras’s a smooth jazzy tune, Renly’s with a dirty bend of the starting note, and hers with a drawn out flutter tongue. All the while, Sam played the familiar mechanical tune, Stannis keeping the beat steady.

It was always a crowd favorite, the  _ Libertango,  _ so it was no surprise when the applause was much greater than the one the sextet had received. Sansa felt frustrated at it, but kept it hidden behind a tight smile.

She loved her woodwind quintet, but the sextet had something  _ more.  _ Something  _ better. _

__ “Thought you were gonna run off without us there at the breakdown.” Loras snapped at Sam as soon as they exited the stage.

Sansa adored Loras, she really did. But it didn’t stop her from snapping back at him, her voice a hushed, stern tone behind the backstage curtain.

“You,” Sansa said, turning to point at Renly, “-and You. Need to figure this out before this quintet does anything else. Get laid, break-up, get married,  _ I don’t care.  _ But if you can’t quit this shit, I’ll get Podrick and Irri to replace you both.”

Loras and Renly had frozen, seemingly shocked by her outburst. It was completely unladylike, completely not Sansa, completely rude; but she’d had enough of the arguing, enough of the frustration.

She took a deep breath. “Sam, you did wonderful. Please ignore Loras, he’s not in his right mind currently.”

Sam nodded frantically, moving to get out of her way when she exited the side of the stage.

Sansa closed her eyes, breathing out a sigh of pent-up frustration when she ran straight into another source of frustration. Just much, much different with the frustration she held with Loras and Renly.

“Watch where you’re going, girl.” Sandor snarled at her as he grabbed her shoulders, stopping her from going headfirst into his chest.

Sansa blushed bright red. 

“Don’t stand in front of doors, then.” She snapped back. 

Which led her to asking another question.

“Why were you right by the stage door, anyways? We finished fifteen minutes ago.” Sansa pointed out, staring up at his face. Gods, she was a tall woman, but she still barely reached his shoulders. She refused to be intimidated, even when he glared down at her.

“Can’t I just stand here? I’m as big a part of this orchestra as you are.” He grumbled, but his words were weak. Lies, crafted at the last moment, delivered a little too fast.

“You were listening to my quintet.” Sansa said slyly, leaning back quickly at her revelation. She suddenly felt like she had a valuable piece of information in her hands, one he didn’t want her to know.

“I have ears, girl. Of course I heard it.” He snarled back, gritting his jaw at her words. Sansa wasn’t sure how they both so expertly pushed one anothers’ buttons; but gods, they were good at it.

“No, you  _ listened  _ to it. Big difference there, Sandor.” Sansa said, and she made sure to draw out his name slightly, her voice darker than before. She smirked up at him, unable to help it- for once, she didn’t feel like the dumb little girl. For once, she was in charge of their conversation, making  _ him  _ feel like he was caught red-handed.

“What do you want me to say, little bird?” Sandor said roughly, his whole demeanor changing in the blink of her eye; suddenly he was a step closer, looking down at her, and she was pressed against the large, black stage door. Suddenly she felt so much smaller than before, was much more apparent of just how  _ large  _ he was. His hands on either side of her, flanking her form against the door; he could probably eat her whole.

And his eyes said he’d do just that. 

Sansa felt a spark in her chest, a little bit of her that wanted that same control, that same confidence as before. She spoke up.

“I want you to admit you’re interested in me.” 

Sansa let the words hang thick in the air between them, pushing her chin up at him. The words made his eyes tighten, a snarl on his face for a split second; and then he changed, and there was a strangled, dark laugh coming from his mouth.

“Oh, little bird.” He said, as if she just  _ didn’t quite understand.  _ Sansa turned red at his words, an almost-snarl of her own on her face. She took a step forward, even though there was less than a foot between them in the first place; she was determined to show that she wasn’t spoiled, young Sansa Stark. She was strong, and she wouldn’t put up with  _ any  _ bullshit.

But then there was a hand on her throat, right under her jaw. It was huge, and if he wanted to, it could’ve stretched around most of her neck. It was warm, too too warm, and she almost  _ wanted  _ him to close his palm. Gods, she  _ needed it.  _

__ But instead he pushed her back into the door, surprisingly gentle for the next words out of his mouth.

“Fine, little bird. What do you want  _ me  _ to say? That I’ll take those tight little slacks off, slip my cock out and fuck you against the door here? Lift you up and hold you here, won’t let you get away? That I’ll make you sing so loud it won’t matter  _ who  _ is on stage, all they’ll hear is you? You, prim little fuckin’  _ Sansa Stark,  _ begging for a monster’s cock.”

The last sentence wasn’t question, but a statement, and Sansa tried to keep the pathetic moan from her throat. She felt like she was burning alive, like when he removed his stern hand it would leave a burn mark behind, a gruesome scar on her throat to match the one that marred his face.

He leaned even closer, and for a second Sansa thought he’d make good on his words; she burned everywhere but the brunt of it was between her thighs, practically soaking through by now. 

But instead, he leaned into her ear, his scarred cheek grazing the side of her ear; it wasn’t anything, just a slight brush of skin in a rather mundane place, but Sansa shivered as if he was between her thighs.

“No, little bird. I don’t think I will.” 

The hand around her throat was gone, quickly replaced by her own, wringing the heated skin carefully. By the time she looked up he was gone down the hallway, just the thought of him left behind.

Sansa leaned her head back against the door, shaking breaths still coming from her chest.

She could hear the saxophone quartet finish up on stage, and knew the string quartet would be coming back to take the stage soon. 

Sansa couldn’t look at him, couldn’t bear the thought of that right now.

So she grabbed her things from the rehearsal hall, sneaking in after the quartet had already passed by. She grabbed her things quickly, pretending she couldn’t hear Podrick trying to talk to her. 

She texted Margaery a quick apology, blaming the cancellation of margaritas and tacos on a throbbing headache, when she very well knew the incessant throbbing was elsewhere.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Halloween Concert!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have a longer chapter, because I have no self control! 
> 
> I’m loving all the comments I get here, too! It honestly makes my day. I’m considering a Sandor POV chapter after all of this, but scared it’ll disrupt the flow of it all. What do y’all think?
> 
> Also, look out for a little Easter egg here. It may be a little too obscure, but who knows :)

Sandor didn’t show up at the next rehearsal.

Sansa felt mortified, a bit of nausea bubbling up inside her. She wasn’t sure what to make of it all, hadn’t had a chance to sort out all her emotions since it had happened, let alone decode what he had even meant. _Monster._

She didn’t know Sandor, she’d admit that. But the small acts of kindness, of caring, that occasionally shown through the rough exterior had made her _safe._ She wasn’t sure how he could ever been seen as a _monster._

His face was a mess, she’d admit; but it was only one side of his face that was horribly scarred. The other side was almost regal, in a way, with a thick brow and sculpted jawline. He wasn’t ugly, by any means, and the thought of someone calling him a _monster_ made her bristle with anger.

It wasn’t her place, she knew that, but still. She wanted to tear apart anyone that had somehow put that notion in his head.

The new concert was discussed- it was a children’s concert, and that notion made Sansa smile a bit. She adored children’s concerts, getting to share her love for music with them. Children had such an innocent love for music, not dampened by society’s expectations or norms. Sharing the love she had with them made her feel fulfilled.

At the end of rehearsal, folders of music were being passed around. She nabbed hers, flipping through the pages. She noticed Tyrion place a folder onto Sandor’s chair with a frown. Gods, had Sandor not even _told_ the maestro of his absence?

Sansa stared at the folder for a second, biting her lip, weighing the options.

\---------------

_You are so, so stupid._ Sansa told herself, anxiety bubbling in her chest.

She knew she shouldn’t have been so impulsive- _when has that ever helped you-_ but for a second she felt it was perhaps the right thing to do.

Sansa wasn’t sure who was at fault for what happened at the concert- maybe her, for poking around him, pressing too hard on things that he wasn’t comfortable with, or maybe him, for becoming abrasive and putting words in her mouth.

_Even if they weren’t completely incorrect._

She now stood outside his red-brick apartment building, a box of pastries in one hand, her music in the other. She had selected the exact treat he’d picked up for his dog last time- a carrot cake flavored one- along with a chocolate croissant. Maybe, if he didn’t like lemon cakes, he’d like this one instead. She’d figure him out eventually.

But then she’d gotten halfway to his apartment, and like an idiot, realized there were more than just one apartment in that building.

What was she to do now? Go knocking on every door? _Hey, are you tall and dark and handsome and also like to rile me up?_

Sansa stood outside his building for a good five minutes, staring up at the windows. Maybe, if she stared really hard, and the no one called the cops, she could figure out which was his. Dark, drab curtains? A real possibility. Yellow curtains, succulent on the window? She doubted, but who knew-

“The fuck are you doing here?” 

Sansa was really starting to wonder if she could summon him from thin air, just by thinking of him. But if that were the case, he’d of been in her bedroom nearly every night this week.

“I brought your music.” Sansa said simply, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. She was trying to summon what little confidence she had left.

Sandor was in his usual running get-up, but this time there was a leash in one hand, attached to a huge, wiry black dog.

Who was lunging for her, his big pink tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Hey, buddy,” Sansa babbled, reaching out to firmly pet the large dog’s head. He loved it, his long tail furiously slamming into Sandor’s leg. She looked up at Sandor, who had made a grumble after she had pet the dog. She _probably_ should’ve asked first.

The man was instead staring at his dog with a furious look in his eyes.

Sansa pet him harder, the dog staring up at her with an adoring look on his face.

“I brought him a treat. As an apology.” Sansa said finally, but Sandor still wasn’t meeting her eyes. Gods, he was sweaty, and, unsurprisingly, still attractive. Sansa swallowed deeply.

“And you. Figured everyone had to like chocolate.” She added nervously.

Sandor frowned. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, girl.” He grumbled, gritting his teeth behind his lips. He looked on the verge of running off, all of his muscles tensed and ready to bolt.

“I-” Sansa veered off, looking off at the cars behind him to distract herself. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

Sandor laughed at that, a little bitter. 

“No, you shouldn’t have. Don’t want the dog to actually bite, do you?” Sandor spat out.

Gods, she had no idea how to function with the man. She just wanted to give a damn apology- one she wasn’t even sure she had any right claiming- in hopes things would be okay. But she should’ve known better- their _tension_ went far past this past encounter. 

“It’s like two steps forward, one step back with you.” Sansa responded, a little louder than she’d hoped. A few residents were leaving the apartment building at her back, giving her a quick, curious glance at her raised tone.

Sandor opened his mouth to respond, a scowl on his face. Sansa simply raised a hand, giving what she hoped was a furious snarl in response.

“No. I don’t want to talk to you if you’re just going to be foul.” Sansa said. She threw his pastry box out to him, and he caught it with a surprised look on his face. Good- she’d never seemed to catch him off guard.

“Girl- _Sansa.”_ Sandor said as she turned to leave; she paused at her name. She’d never heard him say it, actually say it in a sentence that wasn’t completely demeaning. She hated how much she wanted to hear him say it again.

“Will you come upstairs?” Sandor finished. His voice was oddly strained, like he was trying out a sentence he’d crafted with careful precision. Like he’d been weighing out all the options, and this was the one he’d been forced to settle on.

Sansa waited a second before nodding her head stiffly.

The dog just looked expectantly between them, his large pink tongue still hanging out from one side of his mouth.

\-------------

Sandor Clegane’s apartment was not anything she’d really expected.

It was clean, incredibly minimal; one may say temporary, but Sansa saw a few signs of comfort in there that she hadn’t been expecting. A black couch with a few gray pillows, an actual rug on the floor, a huge dog bed in the corner. A bookshelf, surprisingly full with well-loved books.

Sansa felt suddenly intimidated by it all- Sandor Clegane’s apartment. Principal cellist of the New York Symphony. 

A voice inside her calmed her a bit. _You’re just as formidable._

Sandor bent down to put a large bowl of water in front of his dog’s bed; as he moved, the muscles in his back stretched, little indentions in his shirt. Sansa forced herself to read the titles off the spines on his bookshelf instead.

“So.” Sansa said finally, crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted to feel a bit more in charge of the situation, a bit less like the frantic, confused girl she actually was.

“So.” Sandor replied, clearing his throat afterwards. He looked a bit pained.

“I meant my apology out there.” Sansa shot back. 

“I know.” Sandor replied, rubbing a hand over his beard, and suddenly Sansa could see the bags under his eyes, the tiredness in his body. She felt a rush of guilt.

“Are you ever going to be genuine to me?” Sansa asked him, turning her body away from the bookshelf. It was a heavy question, and it made Sandor blink at her.

“You don’t even know me.” He responded, and Sansa swallowed down the bit of hurt she felt at that.

“No, I don’t. But I do know that everything you’ve shown me is two extremes. You being an asshole to me, you caring about me. You acting like I’m a stupid, dumb _girl_ and you buying me lemon cakes when I’m upset.” Sansa told him, gritting her teeth as she bit back tears. She wouldn’t cry in front of him _again,_ after the time at the bakery. 

Sandor stared at her hard, and she fought the urge to look away.

“I just don’t know what this is.” Sansa said, shoving her hand between the two of them.

“And you think I do?” He shot back, that telltale snarl hinting at his lips. 

“Don’t you deflect this all back to me.” Sansa warned. “I know you better than you think- the minute I get too close or push too hard into what you _actually_ think is the minute you bite back.”

“I can’t talk about my damned _feelings_ , girl.” Sandor sneered meanly at her, looking down at her; he’d gotten close to her, just a few feet away now. Within arms reach.

“Well can’t you fucking try for once?!” Sansa spat back.

“Well what the fuck is this, then? You can’t ask me that. You shouldn’t _be here,_ you shouldn’t _be talking to me,_ you shouldn’t be within a fucking _mile_ of me, little bird.” Sandor roared, his chest heaving at his words. From the corner, Stranger whined. “You ask me this shit when _you’re the one calling all the shots.”_

Sansa’s lips were on his before he could say anything else.

She had to press herself on the tips of her toes, grab his chin in a firm hand for once, the other threading into his surprisingly soft, dark hair; she ruined his post-run ponytail and she liked that immensely.

 _Call the shots?_ Fine. If she was the one calling the shots, she’d best well do a damn fine job at it.

Sandor’s mouth didn’t move against hers at first, and she found that for the second time today, she successfully caught him off-guard. But after a moment, his lips moved back against her, quickening the already frantic pace she set.

Their tongues were together in an instant, his giant hands framing her waist with an almost painful grip; Sansa moaned into his mouth, feeling an instant shot to her core.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t already soaking wet. It was terrible, it was unladylike, it wasn’t what she was supposed to be- but she’d be a damn liar if she said fighting with him didn’t turn her on.

And soon she was being tipped over the arm of his couch, and a hand found it’s way from her waist into her hair; it tugged harshly, just as hard and demanding as she’d hoped it would be. _Gods, what was wrong with her?_

She bit hard on his lip, loving the rough tug she got in response. She didn’t miss the deep groan that rumbled through his chest, either. 

Sansa idly wondered who was in charge of this all now- it seemed always changing between them. Evolving.

He was between her legs now, her propped up on the arm of his couch; at this angle he was the perfect height for him to tuck into her, their hips meeting and Sansa could’ve _sobbed._ She felt like she was melting from the inside out, felt like her lungs were being constricted and she couldn’t fucking _breathe-_

He rocked against her so hard she would’ve fell back were it not for the hand he held at her back. Gods, he was strong- and when she moved her hips back to meet his, she could feel just how hard he was. _Fuck-_ it was even bigger than she’d imagined. And gods knew she’d imagined.

Sansa wanted to beg, wanted to whisper a desperate _please_ into his mouth because she knew at this point she’d do anything he wanted, knew he’d probably love her submitting for once.

“Gods, woman.” Sandor gasped against her lips as she ground hard against him, partly for the shot of pleasure that wrecked her spine, half for the groan it helplessly tore from him.

It was its own kind of music, and if there was one thing Sansa liked as much as she did music, it was having her own control over Sandor Clegane, she decided.

There was a bit of wetness at her side, and Sansa instinctively shied away from it; she wasn’t even sure when her blouse got pushed up that high-

“Stranger. Go lay down.” Sandor commanded, his voice shaking despite the stern tone.

Sansa scooted back away from him, putting a few inches between them. She focused on taking deeper breaths, reminding her lungs that she had plenty of air.

“Gods.” She said quietly, running a hand over her face. She’d known she was attracted to the man, knew it probably wasn’t one-sided. But gods, just a heated kiss and she already felt more fire in her than she’d had during _any_ sex she’d had before.

_Fuck._

“We need some air.” Sandor grumbled finally, taking a few steps away from her. His hands were fidgety around his sides, his long hair mused and falling from the band it had been wrapped in; he seemed just like he did after finishing a beautiful, taxing piece of music- strangely vulnerable and open.

But after an instant he was back to normal, stony-faced and grumpy, minus the redness in his cheeks and the black of his pupils. Sansa bit her lip, and he looked quickly before finding the far wall in his apartment with apparent interest.

“Yeah,” Sansa said weakly. “I- I should probably go.”

She didn’t look back as she left, her hands still shaking. It was probably for the better.

\------------

The days before the next rehearsal flew by, even though Sansa spent a majority of the time with her stomach in twists.

After she’d gotten back to her apartment that night, she’d gone straight to her bathroom and ran a hot bubble bath. And then she’d had her hand furiously moving between her thighs, thinking about _his_ hands and _his_ lips, and she came harder than she had in months.

And once she’d dried off, looked in the mirror and saw the handprint bruises on her hip bones, she’d done it all over again.

She felt like a horny, sex-crazed teenager all over again, discovering horomones for the first time; but gods no, she was well into her mid-twenties, and just happened to find someone that drove her absolutely wild.

And also hated her. That was also very, very important.

The next rehearsal, she had been anxiously moving around in her seat, thirty minutes before the baton went down. She’d already warmed-up as much as possible, already had a small conversation with Tyrion, already exchanged a few niceties with Loras and Renly, who were both surprisingly calm and civil.

Her entire body relaxed a bit as Sandor took the stage, seemingly normal and business as usual.

Sansa felt a rush of shame go through her- _of course_ Sandor was normal, why wouldn’t he be? She threw herself on him and he reacted like any red-blooded man would. He didn’t give a shit either way, he’d made that abundantly clear. It didn’t matter to him, she realized.

She bit back traitorous tears as they ran through the program. She shouldn’t care, either, but she did. 

\-----------

“Gods, do I look sexy or what?” Margaery scoffed.

She did a twirl in her outfit, clad in a pair of skin-tight black jeans, a v-neck white shirt with a black vest thrown over it; and, of course, the signature knee-high black boots and a belt slung low on her hips.

“ _Han Solo, you’re my only hope!”_ Sansa gasped, dramatically throwing the back of her hand over her forehead. In the past few weeks leading up to the children’s concert, she felt somewhat more at ease. Margaery’s antics had definitely helped, along with a few bottles of wine along the way.

Margaery groaned loudly.

“Damnit, Sansa. That’s not even the _line._ ” Margaery complained. For a second, Sansa could idly see why Robb had a not-so-secret infatuation with her- he’d loved _Star Wars_ almost as much as he loved music, and Margaery had an obsession to match. One that you definitely would not be able to see at first glance.

“But it came from Leia, so it counts.” Sansa shot back. She adjusted one of the many bobby pins in her hair, holding the signature space buns into place- between that and the flowy white dress she had on, cinched tight around her waist with the silver belt, she was perfectly in costume.

If you ignored the fiery hair, that was.

“Those little girls are going to fawn all over you.” Margaery grinned, clasping her hands together and rubbing them excitedly- she’d been talking about the children’s concert for weeks now. It was her baby, in a way- she was the one who had suggested to the symphony board that there be a Halloween, children’s themed concert, consisting of beloved film music as opposed to the usual classical.

She gave Margaery a tight-lipped smile.

“But you get a blaster. I’m sure they’ll think that’s much cooler.” Sansa shot back.

By the time they got to the concert hall, the venue was already abuzz with concertgoers; Sansa had expected that the concert would be a huge hit, but she hadn’t expected to have a halfway full house almost an hour and a half before the curtain went up. Granted, it had been sold out a week after season ticket sales began, so she shouldn’t have been surprised.

In the corner, a few of the symphony musicians were performing lobby music, consisting of the _Cantina Band_ mix from _Star Wars._ She saw Oberyn dressed in an extravagant space bounty hunter’s costume, wailing along to the cantina theme, and Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Of course he would go all out for Halloween.

The soprano sax, Ygritte, was holding the main solo on her own, clad in a costume somewhat similar to Margaery’s.

“She’s Jyn Erso, Sansa.” Margaery sighed, shaking her head at her. “I swear, if you don’t educate yourself on _Star Wars_ and all related mediums I will have to stop talking to you. For good.”

“I’d like to see that happen,” Sansa shot back, sticking out her tongue at her friend.

“Oh my gods,” Loras gasped from behind her. “Aren’t you both absolutely adorable? Renly!!”

Renly appeared from the crowd, following Loras’s excitement at seeing his cousin and fellow musician. He was in a shockingly red Superman costume. And that would mean-

“Lois Lane? Really, Loras?” Margaery commented with a raise of one thin, sculpted eyebrow.

“You’re a female Han Solo. Your argument is therefore invalid.” Loras responded, no longer enthused with her costume. Sansa shook her head, smiling.

“I’ve got to get warmed up, Marg. See you after?” Sansa chirped.

“Bar crawl. Ten pm.” Margaery told her sternly with a wag of her finger; ever since the missed Margaritas with Marg (dubbed by the brunette herself), Sansa hadn’t heard the end of it.

“I had to go with _Loras,_ Sansa. Do you know how dull he can be?” Margaery had complained.

But soon Margaery was shooting her a kiss, letting Sansa flow into the crowd to get backstage.

\---------

“I’m not very used to playing with a symphony.” Jon said quietly, listening to Sansa warm up in the corner of the rehearsal hall. He was running his hair through his dark, curly locks, almost nervous. Sansa couldn’t help but stop her playing, shaking her head- the man had played for crowds of thousands with his punk band, but put him on a classical stage and he suddenly acted frightened.

“Jon. You’re amazing, don’t worry about it.” Sansa assured him. “Besides, it’s only a few pieces!”

The guitar was rarely used in the symphony, but with the modern _John Williams_ concert tribute, it had been called for. That, and the saxophone section that the symphony kept on call. Sansa would be lying if she hadn’t noticed the way her cousin looked at the lead saxophone, Ygritte; she wondered if sitting and playing by her had caused some of the anxiety.

“You’re right. You’ve got more to worry about, Princess.” Jon said softly, poking at the space buns that had miraculously stayed up through all of it.

Jon had actually agreed to don the Luke Skywalker robes, much to her amusement; anyone who thought they could be brother and sister were mad.

“Call time in five!” A violinist, dressed as Hermione Granger, had shouted.

Sansa couldn’t help but look around the room in a bit of amazement- the normally uptight, strict New York Symphony was currently all dressed in costume, all holding thick folders and their own instrument. To her right was Severous Snape carrying a cello, Indiana Jones with a french horn under his arm, and of course- Tormund Giantsbane had rented a giant, blow-up dinosaur costume.

“Tyrion said I could dress as anything from a John Williams movie.” He’d said smugly to whoever would listen. As long as his giant costume was firmly in the back, tucked into the percussion section, she supposed there couldn’t be _too_ much scolding from Tyrion.

Sansa followed the crowd to the stage, joining the others that had been rehearsing; the audience lights were still on, and she could see just how packed it was. She looked around, a little girl dressed in a Princess Leia costume catching her eye in the balcony. She was frantically waving at Sansa, and when Sansa- or, redheaded Princess Leia- waved back at her, she grinned so broadly Sansa couldn’t help but do the same.

She settled into her seat, and looked out onto the symphony; the sound of arpeggios and scales filled her ears, the careful tuning of a timpani taking place behind her.

Sansa saw Sandor, and like always, her heart clenched almost painfully. He hadn’t noticed her, but she had clearly noticed him. And, with a jolt of surprise, she noticed he’d actually dressed up. 

She supposed he didn’t have much of a choice- Tyrion had made it clear that no concert black was tonight, knowing that the children would adore seeing their favorite characters play the music.

Sandor had tried to go as low-key as possible, dressed in a brown sweater and a pair of well-fitted dark jeans- she had to look him over a few times to notice the brown-and-gold belt slung across his chest from one shoulder to the other hip.

Sansa hid a giggle behind her hand- she hadn’t watched _Star Wars_ since Robb had forced her to in high school, but even she knew Chewbacca.

Sandor caught her eye then, and she almost thought she’d imagined his small grin, pleased at her reaction. His eyes were so soft then, his mouth _almost_ grinning, and she was pleased to know even stony, grumpy Sandor Clegane wasn’t immune to the happy buzz of a children’s concert.

At that point, the concertmaster, Davos, came onto the stage to the loud, messy applause of the audience. The entire orchestra stood as he reached his seat, sitting as a whole; and soon Margaery filtered on stage to announce the first piece, complete with her dramatic interpretation of it.

And soon they started in on _Jurassic Park._

\-------------

Intermission came quickly, and began the children’s costume contest. Sansa was in the middle of gasping at cute toddlers dressed as R2D2s when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“A helpless princess? Really?” Sandor said, but his voice was devoid of the usual demeaning tone; it was almost his odd little way of trying to start a conversation.

“You and I both know she was the furthest thing from helpless.” Sansa shot back, grinning at a ten-year old girl, dressed as a female Indiana Jones.

“I’ve got to comment, though. Chewbacca?” Sansa added, raising an eyebrow at him. Sandor shook his head with an exasperated sigh.

“Tyrion insisted we had to dress up. Though this was the least effort.” He defended himself, taking a long swing of water. 

“Is this the longest we’ve gone without bickering?” Sansa asked idly, shooting him a sly grin. Sandor snorted at that.

“Seems like it, little bird.” For once, the name didn’t seem cruel; it was almost fond, in the way it slipped from his lips like a sigh. Sansa couldn’t help but remember when her real name was coming from his lips like a sigh, him in between her legs and her with a hand in his hair…

“Maybe we had to get some things out of our system.” Sansa offered, surprised at her boldness. They were still completely in view of the audience, just tucked to the side of the crowd, people within arm’s reach on every side.

Sandor chucked darkly at that, gripping his water bottle tightly. “Aye, little bird.”

It was quiet for a second, a new child walking across the stage with the clapping of the audience. She wondered for a second if it would end at that, and couldn’t help a bit of disappointment.

“But not all of it.” Sandor added quietly after a second, his face still impassive, staring straight ahead at the contest on the stage.

Sansa gave a small smirk at that, the look coming slowly onto her features. She felt the warmth in her belly, felt it settle low into her thighs.

The contest ended, the winner being announced- a young infant dressed as Dobby- and the musicians began to filter back on the stage to warm up after intermission.

“That’s why I said _some_.” Sansa shot back at him, over her shoulder. She saw his let out a breath at that, a rough grin on his face at her comment.

She ran back onstage before he could add anything else.

\--------------------------

The _Star Wars_ suite added a bit more concentration; not only was it deceptively difficult in the wild runs of the main theme, but the Princess Leia’s theme required a long, drawn out flute solo.

Stannis started the theme with a hopeful, gorgeous melody. He delivered it so softly to her, barely a whisper of a strain at the end, that Sansa could have kissed him.

She started the Princess Leia theme, feeling the tension release from her body as more and more notes drifted out of her; it was one of her favorite themes, so hopeful and beautiful and full of _longing_. In that moment, she truly felt like a princess of a foreign kingdom, fighting to save her people.

The piece ended with a huge standing ovation, and Tyrion waved her up with a smile on her face; she heard a few little excited gasps from children in the audience, and she grinned back broadly.

When she looked around, she saw Sandor smiling a soft, barely-there smile to the music on his stand.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stranger the cockblocker strikes again! But probably for good reason, I can’t not write these two with immense sexual tension. 
> 
> Next chapter: Halloween Party!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: this chapter is almost 100% fluffy fanservice and I will not apologize for that. I doubt y’all would complain anyways :)  
> Besides, I think we need a break from the constant concerts/rehearsals/narrative to see Sansa and Sandor try and understand what’s going on between them.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!

“Gods, I need a drink.” Margaery sighed, draping a hand over her forehead dramatically.

“We’re getting there,” Sansa said, grinning at her friend’s dramatics; Margaery was used to her post-playing routine, her meticulous cleaning and wipe-down of her instrument. Giddy from performance or not, her flute came first.

The backstage area was wild, a bit more excited than usual backstage concerts. After a rousing playthrough of  _ Star Wars,  _ the orchestra was energetic and rambunctious, all musicians chattering about afterparties and bar-hopping and everything in between; it was Halloween, after all, and the orchestra was mainly composed of young adults.

“So,” Margaery said quietly, suddenly a lot closer to Sansa. “I saw you talking to someone during intermission.”

“Oh yeah?” Sansa offered, trying to seem as impassive as possible; the last thing she needed was Margaery Tyrell stirring the pot in a brew that was already chaotic at best.

Margaery grinned from ear to ear. “Y’know, he’s not the prettiest, but  _ gods,  _ that body-”

“Shut up,” Sansa said instantly, her face heating up.

“Ha! I knew it.” Margaery poked a reddened cheek, Sansa glaring back at her. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.” Sansa muttered, looking around the room to make sure the grumpy cellist wasn’t suddenly behind her. Luckily, she spotted him across the room, putting up his cello as Tormund chatted animatedly to him, his blow-up mini T-Rex arms occasionally hitting Sandor’s arm. Sansa had to hide a giggle behind her hand at that.

“ _ Well……..”  _ Margaery said, her voice going high.

Sansa snapped up to look at her. “I don’t like that voice, Marg.”

“I may have invited Bronn, because why the hell not. He’s sexy, past that whole condition of being a percussionist.” Margaery said, twirling a lock of her ponytail around one finger and pretending that Sansa wasn’t hanging on to her every word.

“Okay….” Sansa added, pushing her to get to the point.

“I may of told him to invite Sandor.” Margaery said, giving Sansa a huge, guilty grin.

Sansa was conflicted- on one hand, she wanted to act like a kid again tonight, live the college years she’d missed out on in her strenuous years at conservatory; she had definitely been planning getting good and drunk.

But on the other hand, the thought of drunken Sansa coming onto Sandor made her already want to die of embarrassment. She could barely keep her hands off of him while sober- but after drinking?

“It’ll be fiiiiiiine.” Margaery drew out, still grinning from ear to ear. 

“You’re the worst.” Sansa sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. 

“Oh, you’ll get over it.” Margaery assured her, giving her a little wink. “Who knows, maybe you two can get all close and friendly.” 

She wiggled her eyebrows at Sansa, and Sansa blushed, thinking of a time when they’d done exactly that. Margaery mistook her response as prudishness, giggling at her.

“Who all  _ did  _ you invite?” Sansa questioned.

“Not that many.” Margaery said, but her voice drew off as she looked around the room, not making eye contact with Sansa. Sansa rolled her eyes; she knew  _ that  _ Margaery response pretty damn well.

But from the corner of her eye she could see Bronn joining Tormund and Sandor’s one-sided conversation; to her surprise, Bronn clapped the cellist on the shoulder, and instead of a grumpy response, Sandor  _ rolled his eyes.  _ Maybe she was the only one who got the asshole treatment.

She frowned at that.

But then Bronn asked him something, nodding his head in Margaery’s direction; Bronn caught Sansa watching, meeting her eyes to give a quick wink.

Sansa whirled on her heels, facing the other direction as she felt eyes on her back.

“-and Podrick, because he’s such a sweetheart that I couldn’t  _ not, _ y’know? I invited Brienne, too, but I’m not sure if she’ll show up since Tormund has been laying it on pretty thick lately and all.” Margaery went on, idly counting off the people on her fingers. Sansa hadn’t heard anything but the end of the babble, but could clearly see a good eight fingers up.

“Sans? You good?” Margaery said, raising a perfectly-groomed eyebrow at her.

“Just peachy.” Sansa said, giving her a cheeky grin and pretending that she’d most definitely heard every word.

“Pod got us a cab.” Margaery said, wiggling her phone in front of Sansa. She offered up a wolfish grin, shaking her hips. “C’mon. Let’s let loose for once.”

\----------------

Margaery’s idea of ‘letting loose’ was very, very different from Sansa’s.

There was a round of tequila shots on the table before Sansa could blink. Margaery seemed to know everyone, and the minute she had stepped into the bar, she was flirting with the bartender, acting as if they’d always known one another.

“Your solo was wonderful,” Podrick said from beside her, his voice a little rushed. Sansa offered him a warm smile as she thanked him.

“You guys hear that kid that screamed when we played  _ Jaws? _ ” Tormund asked with a roguish grin. “Cutest shit I’d seen all week.”

“Okay, but that baby dressed as R2D2. He even made the little noises.” Ygritte offered, pursing her bottom lip at the adorable memory. Sansa hadn’t missed the way her brother watched that movement.

“Enough about the orchestra!” Margaery shouted, grabbing her shot with enough force to slosh the liquor over the edge. Sansa was ninety-percent sure that she’d already downed a shot with the bartender when they weren’t looking. “I’m here to get drunk, people.”

Sansa looked at Jon, tucked into the round booth at her side. He looked at her almost guiltily as he grasped his own shot; curse of being her almost-older-brother.

“We don’t tell Robb and Theon about this.” She said quietly to him.

“Deal.” Jon agreed, bumping her shot with his own.

“To fuckin’  _ great  _ concerts!” Margaery exclaimed, shoving her shot into the middle of the table. Sansa giggled, the group leaning in to bump glasses with hers.

“And to many more,” Bronn added, eyeing her friend with interest.

The first shot went down with a sputter from Sansa, grasping furiously for the lime. She didn’t think she’d  _ ever  _ like shots; from the corner of the booth, she saw Sandor smirking at her. She was sure the heat in her belly wasn’t  _ all  _ from tequila at that point.

“C’mon, princess! They not teach you how to drink up north?” Tormund cackled, slamming a fist on the table. “I think that calls for another round.”

Margaery was already darting back to the bar.

\--------------

By the second club, Sansa was ready to dance.

When she was younger, she’d done ballet for quite a few years; she was never as good as she was at music, but she’d loved it. The thrill of moving her body to the music, loving and feeling the music in a new way. Not just creating, but reacting.

Under the dim lights, punctuated with bright flashes of colors, it felt almost the same.

Margaery twirled her around, her Han Solo ponytail falling apart. Even mused and disheveled, she was still striking, still sporting that signature smirk. Sansa giggled loudly as Margaery pretended to dip her during a pause in the upbeat music.

Across the floor, she saw the group they’d came with still sipping on new drinks. Jon and Ygritte had disappeared into the crowd- something Sansa would  _ definitely  _ ask him about later. Podrick was dancing with a violinist whose name Sansa couldn’t remember; she knew at some point after the first bar, Renly and Loras had tagged along, and Sansa was trying not to constantly be around when they were eating each other’s faces.

Only Tormund, Bronn, and Sandor sat at their original table- the  _ three musketeers.  _ Sansa giggled to herself at that one. Sandor would  _ hate  _ it.

As if she willed it, his eyes flashed up to meet hers. She gave him a broad, lopsided grin, ignoring the slight sway in her step. She was  _ fine.  _

__ Sandor shook his head slightly, a small grin on his face. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of him grinning, especially at her; she’d only seen it a handful of times, when it wasn’t mean and demeaning, and it always sent a thrill through her. Even with the scar, it lit up his face into something almost warm and happy.

It made  _ her  _ happy.

Even if it was him grinning at her goofy, tipsy smiles.

“Sansa. This is  _ my  _ song.” Margaery gasped, grabbing her friend’s face between her hands, forcing Sansa to look her in the eyes. Whatever Sansa felt, Margaery was already  _ well  _ past that.

Margaery grabbed her friend, pulling her flush against her, to Sansa’s surprise. But Margaery led her along to the sultry beat, their bodies fitting together remarkably well. Sansa fell into it, letting the beat thrum through her body and dance against her friend.

Sansa opened her eyes a few moments later, watching the musicians back at the table.

Tormund was grinning wildly, shooting her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Bronn was watching, his eyebrows up, face in a smirk. And Sandor, of all people, was leaning back in his seat. His arms were crossed over his large chest, his face impassive.

Sansa sighed, though she wasn’t sure what she expected.

“Go on, Sans.” Margaery sighed, offering her a dramatic, lopsided grin. “Go get em, tiger.”

Sansa sputtered out a laugh at that. She was definitely no tiger, despite Margaery’s best intentions. Her not-entirely-innocent intentions.

But Margaery swatted her behind before Sansa could stop her, sending her in the direction of the tables.

Sansa took a deep breath, putting one foot in front of the other. For right now, she was Princess Leia Organa, and she could  _ do this. _

__ “Do I need to go rescue her?” Bronn said, tipping his head to Margaery, swaying on the dancefloor still. “She seems a bit- uh, intoxicated.”

“Not sure about rescue, but she definitely needs a partner.” Sansa offered. 

Bronn finished off the rest of his glass, smoothing back his hair with a grin. Tormund clapped his shoulder before he was sauntering on the floor, Margaery giving him her signature, predatory smirk.

Sansa sat across the table from the other two, noticing the way Sandor watched her. Where before, he might’ve hid his interest, hid his many glances, he was watching her with unabashed interest. For a minute, Sansa felt like she was being hunted.

Tormund, for his many awkward, impulsive actions, read the mood quickly.

“I’m going to find the big lady.” He offered, pushing off from the table in a rush.

Sansa sat silently for a minute, Sandor still watching her with interest. She supposed he expected her to feel uncomfortable under the stare, to wither a bit; but instead, she closed her lips around the straw of her drink.

Sandor looked away quickly at that, and she smiled sweetly around her straw.

“You and Margaery practice that bit out there?” Sandor asked after a minute, his voice low. He idly stirred his drink around, and if Sansa didn’t know better, it looked a bit like rum and coke.

She shook her head, smiling to herself.  _ Liar. _

__ “Nope. I used to dance when I was younger.” She answered him. He raised an eyebrow at that.

“So the little bird can play her instrument, dance, sing her courtesies- anything she can’t do?” He mocked, taking a swig of his drink, meeting her eyes the entire time.

“Why do you do that?” Sansa asked, her voice calm, a small smile on her lips. She wasn’t confrontational like before, wasn’t fired up and angry. Just curious. She supposed the alcohol had sedated them a bit.

Sandor raised an eyebrow.

“Mock me like that.” Sansa elaborated.

“If I’m honest, little bird.” Sandor said, surprisingly quick in his response. “It’s because I don’t know what the fuck to do with you.”

Sansa’s lips twisted into a smile. She leaned back in her seat, mirroring his own body language as she brought her glass to her lips.

It mingled well with the heat pooling low in her belly.

“You know what they say.  _ Catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”  _ Sansa said pointedly, tipping her glass in his direction. His chest rumbled with a silent chuckle.

“I’m not trying to catch anything.” He shot back.

“Why?” She offered. She could feel the change between them, the sudden tenseness; she was toeing a line, and she knew that.

“Because you can’t catch anything if you don’t have anything to offer.” Sandor said quickly, gritting his teeth. She could see his muscles tensing, see the clarity through the drinks they’d already had. Acting impulsively, Sansa reached across the table to fold her small hand over his; they looked odd together, his large and tanned and calloused, hers thin and small and pale.

He jolted at the touch, looking up at her curiously.

“You have more than enough to offer, Sandor.” Sansa said quietly, hoping this wouldn’t be one of the times he blew her off in an angry rage. “You just have to let yourself be open enough to offer it.”

He stared hard at her then, and she braced herself to hear the normal response; berating her, telling her she was a little girl with a head full of fantasies and fairy tales.

But instead he dropped her gaze quietly. And she supposed that was the closest thing she could get to a response, in this situation.

Sandor Clegane was one of the most frustrating characters she’d been around; she had never been able to figure him out, never been able to predict his actions or words, never been able to know his next move. But in that moment, she felt like she understood him a little bit more. Whether he’d admit it or not: he was accustomed to biting the hand that fed him.

“You read the magazines, girl?” Sandor said finally, meeting her eyes again.

She shook her head; it had been one thing she’d desperately been avoiding, afraid of what the critics would say, afraid of the response to her interviews and photoshoots. She knew how obsessive musicians could get about it.

“Saw you on the cover of one the other day.” He mused, staring out at the crowd of bodies under the lights.

“You buy it?” Sansa said playfully. Sandor paused, and she let out an amazed laugh. “You  _ did,  _ didn’t you?”

Sandor gave her a pointed glare. “Don’t play with me, girl. Know what the tabloids say about me?”

Sansa shook her head.

“They call me the  _ Hound.  _ Like a dog, because that’s all I am to them.” He said, not bothering to hide the spite in his voice. “I don’t play their little games, sing their little courtesies, and that’s what I am to them. This fucking mug doesn’t hurt, either.”

Sansa gritted her teeth. “They’re bastards, then.”

Sandor shot his head up at that, not expecting the heated response from her.

He laughed suddenly, almost without humor. “Yes, little bird. They’re all bastards.”

She followed the line of her glass with her pointer finger, waiting for his next response.

“Do you want to know what they call you?” He asked. She’d known he was about to say that, and she hated the emotions that rushed through her, the pure anxiety that ran through her.

_ No. Yes. Gods, I don’t know. _

__ “ _ The Queen in the North,”  _ Sandor chuckled, and Sansa blinked again at his words. “Went right past  _ Princess  _ to  _ Queen.  _ Suppose they’ve all got a love for you.”

“That’s a ridiculous name,” Sansa sputtered, even though she felt herself preen inside, felt warmth go through her chest. Once upon a time, her father had toured on a year-long circuit with nearly every major orchestra in the world; she remembered a piece of advertisement she’d seen, hanging in the hallway in her family’s home. It was the Italian advertisement, adorned with bright, regal colors.

_ The King in the North. _

__ She smiled to herself. 

“You’re their sweetheart.” Sandor commented. “And even worse than that, you  _ don’t know that.  _ That’s the most frustrating thing about you- you’re bloody fucking humble and honest, and you’re everything I don’t want you to be.”

Sansa blinked at his words, unsure of her response. It felt so strange and unfamiliar, for Sandor to be so open with his words, so strangely vulnerable in front of her, his words hanging in between them.

“Why couldn’t you have just been a spoiled, stuck-up Stark?” Sandor said, shaking his head. His inky hair fell around his face, and she saw a small, almost pained smile on his features, but it was devoid of any real happiness.

Sansa suddenly slid into the seat beside him, pressing herself firmly against his side. She was reminded of how much smaller she was than him, how he could easily overpower her in an instant.

But he wouldn’t. Sandor would never hurt her.

“I can’t change who I am, or where I came from.” She said softly; for once, she wasn’t irritated at his words, angry at his implications. For once, she understood it all a little bit more. 

Sandor looked down at her, watching her words as if they were all he’d ever cared about.

“I’m sorry I’m not someone you can hate.” She said softly, before leaning into his kiss.

This time, when their lips met, it was much softer than their first kiss; it wasn’t as frantic and passionate, wasn’t as rough and demanding and claiming. This time, it was gentle, delicate, like she was scared he may lash out or run off again.

Like he was a frightened, hurt animal.

It was such an odd backdrop behind them, the bustling club, but Sansa wouldn’t have changed it; if they were anything, they were unconventional. And she was fine with that.

Tucked into their own little corner of the club, it was like the club didn’t even exist, in a way. It all faded to the background. She let herself move a hand up his chest, up past his jaw. 

She paused for a moment at the left side of his face, wondering how much of him he’d give to her. She held her hand patiently at his jaw, waiting.

A large hand cupped her elbow, moving her hand to press gently to the scarred side of his face. It was ropey, waxy and marred; but he wouldn’t be Sandor without it.

When they parted, they kept their eye contact; Sansa swore she saw tears swirling in his eyes, for reasons she couldn’t understand. But he didn’t run, didn’t push her away like he’d done last time. This time, he stayed.

“Little bird,” He whispered, his hand cupping her jaw. She felt a thumb graze over her chin, lightly touching her bottom lip. For a second, she wanted to dip her tongue out, taste him- but she decided against it.

She’d never tell him it, but she knew some things he needed that he wouldn’t ever say- and one of those things was not pushing him too far. Not making him feel like a toy, an object for spoiled, stuck-up girls to use and throw away.

“I’m going to-” Sandor said, sighing as he looked around the club. “-gonna leave.”

Sansa felt her stomach drop, not holding back the concerned frown on her face.

“No,” Sandor said quickly, capturing her jaw again in one of his large hands. “I just-”

Overwhelmed. Not used to this. 

“It’s okay,” Sansa forced herself to say.

At that, Sandor did something she’d never of expected in a million years; he leaned in, pressing a kiss gingerly to her forehead. She felt a rush of warmth in her chest, different from the arousal she’d felt earlier.

“Here,” Sansa said, grabbing his hand in between her own. She fumbled around her purse, feeling for a pen she knew she’d seen in there last week.

Before he could protest, she scrawled her number messily onto the back of his hand.

“Text me when you get home.” She said softly, hoping she wasn’t being too forward.

He gave a small, soft smile.

“Aye, I will, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, Sandor was veeeeery open in this chapter. I hope it’s not too OC- he’s definitely not as brutal as the original hound, and I thought that after Sansa made her feelings known chapter before last, he could open up a bit about what’s got him being such a jerk towards her. 
> 
> Next chapter: Return of the Sextet!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for such a long wait on an update! School and quarantine have been hitting me super hard lately. I’ve also been dealing with writer’s block, of course, so I’ve decided to remedy that by giving you guys a nice helping of fluff and smut. I haven’t wrote on this story in a while, and I’m still trying to get back into the mood of it, so I hope it fits well enough.
> 
> As always, read and enjoy!

_ Is it terrible to want to run away? _

__ Sansa clicked send before she could stop away, her leg jogging nervously as she looked around the waiting room. 

It was her first big interview since she’d been in the orchestra; after the few articles Sandor had shown her, she wasn’t sure what to expect- there was so much speculation around her, her career, and her family, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to live up to that. Her father had gotten his fanciful title from his many world tours, coupled with his strong, silent demeanor. But  _ Queen in the North _ ? 

She felt like a silly little girl,  _ certainly  _ not a Queen.

Her phone buzzed, a quick reply from Sandor.

_ Not at all. _

__ She smiled at that, the phone buzzing as another text came through.

_ I haven’t done any interviews, so you’re already doing better than me. _

__ Texting Sandor had been interesting, to say the least; she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from him, especially with their odd dynamic. But she’d woken up yesterday morning to a picture from him, a familiar pink pastry box filling the screen. It had been dominated by two dog treats, the kind he always bought for Stranger, but Sansa had definitely not missed the little yellow circle in the corner.

_ He’s getting spoiled.  _ Sandor had captioned it, and Sansa had grinned despite the light thudding in her head. After Sandor had left the previous night, she’d spent the rest of it dancing with Margaery and giggling with Podrick. When she’d gotten a short, sweet  _ home safe  _ text from Sandor, she saved the number immediately, drunkenly smiling as she did it.

_ I see that lemon cake.  _ She’d shot back.

_ I suppose we’re both getting spoiled.  _ He’d answered after a moment.

Sansa was definitely getting spoiled; every time her phone buzzed she felt a rush in her chest, like a teenage girl waiting on a boy. She knew she was being silly, but there was something about his little comments, picturing him writing it out, taking the time to respond. 

“Sansa Stark?” A voice said, making her shove her phone right back into her purse. The voice belonged to a tall, slender lady, clutching a clipboard to her chest.

“Hello,” Sansa said, reaching out to return the handshake.

“Are you ready?” She asked, to which Sansa nodded, smoothing down her hair. It wasn’t a videoed interview, so she knew it didn’t matter what she looked like, but she’d still picked out her favorite green sweater and a pair of high-waisted jeans, hoping she looked casual but mature.

The next room was surprisingly modest, just two reporters at a large table, their papers strewn about. Sansa eyed a few articles, her heart clenching a bit when she saw her father’s face on one.

“Hi, Sansa. My name is Alicia, and this is Matt.” The blonde lady said, gesturing to the young man beside her. She had a cheery grin on her face, a pen perched between her fingertips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You as well.” Sansa responded, nodding her head with a nervous smile. 

“So I guess we can go ahead and get started here. We’ve been excited to meet the new face of the New York Symphony woodwinds.” Alicia responded, clicking on the recorder beside her. 

“I’d hardly call myself the  _ face  _ of the woodwinds.” Sansa laughed.

“So what would you call yourself?” The reporter prodded, her demeanor changing in an instant.

“Um.” Sansa started, suddenly feeling trapped under the studio lights. “Well, I’m not sure what I would call myself. I suppose a musician, first and foremost, but I’m hardly the face of my section. I think we’re all equals.”

“Yes, of course.” The lady said, scrawling something onto the pad in front of her, something Sansa couldn’t quite read. “But, you  _ are  _ a Stark. I assume that with that title comes its own personality.”

Sansa frowned at that. “Yes, but I like to think I keep that aspect of my life separate from my career.”

“Of course, of course.” Alicia said. Sansa felt that familiar bubble in her stomach, the anxiety churning there as she glanced again at the old picture of her father, a previous article set aside.

This time, the man beside her chimed in. “Can you address the rumors over the connections your father had to Tyrion Lannister?”

Sansa was taken aback by that question. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of any rumors of that sort.”

“We have an inside source, from the Symphony itself.” Alicia chimed in, her face stony as she nodded her head. “Claiming that Tyrion Lannister and Ned Stark were good friends, and insinuated that Melisandre’s firing may have to do with that  _ friendship.” _

__ Sansa felt her words leave her, her mind going blank save for a rush of frustration. In all his life, her father had never once mentioned Tyrion Lannister. Of course he’d  _ known  _ him- her father had once soloed with the New York Symphony, for gods’ sake. 

She would admit she had no idea why the previous principal flautist had been fired. But to insinuate that her father had some  _ hand  _ in it…..

“That’s a very disgusting rumor.” Sansa said, trying to hold back the menace in her voice, but failing miserably.

“This is a very trustworthy source, Miss Stark.” The man spoke up, but Sansa had already made her decision.

“Thank you for inviting me.” Sansa said, her voice sharp. “But I think I need to leave.”

Alicia was saying something, standing as Sansa gathered her things. But Sansa wasn’t even listening, instead just tuning out her voice and instead focusing on the drumming of her heartbeat in her ears.

\-----------------

“Hey,” Sansa breathed, her pulse calming a bit from the interview, but not by much. She was cramped on the subway, feeling too loud in the car.

“Hello?” Sandor answered, his voice gruff and questioning on the other end. For a second, she felt self-conscious, wondering if she should give up and just deal with the day on her own.

“Are you busy?” She asked, her voice small.

“Not too much. Would you like to come over?”

Sansa closed her eyes, blessing whatever gods were listening for letting Sandor read her mind in that moment. If she had to invite herself over, impose on his time without his want, she’d probably would have cried.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

\------------------

When she showed up at the door, he’d raised an eyebrow, taking her in.

“You look about ready to kill.” Sandor said, moving to the side to let her walk into the apartment. When she walked past him, pretending to be very interested in the windows across the room, she fought the urge to touch him. Gods, it would probably feel amazing just to hug him, to be enveloped in strong arms and his sharp smell. 

She wasn’t sure if he was much of the hugging type, though, and she’d shoot herself in the head before she asked him.

“The interview was shit.” Sansa sighed, running her hands over her face as she stood in the entryway. It was barely even noon, and she felt like she’d been awake for days. All the tension, all the frustration had built up in her body.

“Aye, that’s why I don’t do them.” Sandor said, a bit smug, as he walked past her to grab a few glasses from his kitchen.

“I’m not drinking before noon.” Sansa warned him, watching his shirt slide up as he reached up for a glass; it showed a little sliver of skin, and Sansa looked away quickly.

“Didn’t say you had to.” Sandor shot back, shoving a clear glass into her hands. “Water.”

Now that he mentioned it, she was incredibly thirsty. Between the stressful interview and her raging emotions afterwards, she hadn’t thought much about it.

“You eat today?” He asked, tilting his head in her direction.

“I’m not a child, Sandor.” Sansa snapped, her face hot. She wasn’t a little kid, damnit. She could very well take care of herself, and suddenly she felt like she was right back in front of the interview, trying to defend the fact that she got where she was  _ all on her own. _

“Little bird.” Sandor sighed. He eyed her then, an almost amused, dry look in his eyes. “I know good and well you can take care of yourself. Doesn’t mean you should always have to.”

Sansa bit her lip, unsure of how to respond to that. She felt something strong in her chest, almost a form of gratitude. 

“You’re one to talk.” Sansa threw back, though her words were without the same sting as before.

Sandor chuckled. “You’re not wrong.”

\----------

An hour later, Sansa was eating Pad Thai on Sandor Clegane’s couch.

It was a little odd to think about- when she’d first started at the symphony, she probably would’ve been horrified if someone had explained this scene to her. Now, it felt almost normal, in a weird, unsettling way.

Sandor had already been through judging her on her television tastes, though his weren’t much better. Because, honestly, how could  _ Breaking Bad  _ be better than  _ Gossip Girl?  _ She didn’t care how girlish it made her seem, she was sticking by her opinion on that and their argument over it didn’t change that one bit.

And she’d fed Stranger a crab rangoon, much to Sandor’s horror. The dog was still lounging at her side on the couch- another rule Sandor had begrudgingly allowed Stranger to break today- hours later. Sansa had decided long before that her ultimate goal, out of all of this, was to make Sandor’s dog love her more than him. 

Finally, after far too many carbs, and a rerun episode of  _ Firefly,  _ Sandor’s voice came back.

“So what’d they ask?” Sandor said, his voice low and steady. He was still idly watching television, but she saw the tension in his hands, knew that he was acting uncaring, probably for her own sake.

But she took a deep breath, and answered.

“They said someone in the symphony had told them that my father rigged the flute spot for me.” Sansa explained, idly running a hand over Stranger’s soft ears. The dog was fast asleep, lulled by the drone of the television.

Sandor scoffed. “They heard you play?”

Sansa smiled. “Yeah, it sounds ridiculous. It’s just….”

She paused a moment, not sure if she wanted to speak the words into existence. She  _ knew  _ why she’d reacted so strongly, why she’d stormed out so quick.

But she saw Sandor, his head turned so he could watch her, a surprising amount of care in his face, his brow furrowed slightly. So she continued.

“I don’t know why Melisandre was fired.” Sansa said, her voice small and shaky. “So, it’s just- who knows? My father was gone a lot, and I don’t know all of his connections, and-”

“Sansa.” Sandor said firmly, and she felt the couch dip beside her as he moved to her side. Though her mind was still churning, frantic at her admission, she was hyper aware of his presence, just a few inches between them. 

“I know, I know.” Sansa laughed, biting back tears.

“Your father had nothing to do with your position.” Sandor said firmly, and she felt his hand come to cover her own. It was large, larger than she expected, and rough with callouses from years of cello strings- but it was warm and comforting, and she leaned into it.

“I hope you’re right.” She responded. She couldn’t shake that worry, though, but she knew he couldn’t fix that. It was something she’d have to deal with on her own, and although he insisted, he couldn’t give her a truth that he himself didn’t know.

But it was the effort that counted. Sansa turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his. She didn’t say anything, just stared ahead at the television in hopes that it wouldn’t be too much for him.

To her surprise, he didn’t stop her.

Sansa, feeling emboldened by the response, leaned against his arm, tucking hers underneath his, their hands still intertwined.

She heard a little  _ huff  _ from him, Stranger’s head popping up to glance over at them.

Sansa just stared at the television, pretending she had entirely no idea.

“Trying to fuckin’ domesticate me.” Sandor said finally, his voice an exasperated tone that made Sansa grin, trying to hide it under her spare hand.

“Well,” Sansa started, trying to give him an innocent grin. “You  _ are  _ always calling yourself a dog. Maybe it’s time to get housetrained.”

Sandor barked out a laugh at that, the sound shaking through his chest to mingle in hers. It was pleasant, a warmth she wasn’t used to.

“You’re a handful.” Sandor commented after a second, shaking his head. 

“You’re not Mr. Sunshine over there, either.” Sansa shot back.

“Never claimed to be. I’m not the  _ Queen in the  _ fuckin’  _ North _ , remember?” He threw back at her, still looking ahead at the television; but she saw the quirk of his lips at her irritated sigh.

“Gods, please don’t ever call me that.” Sansa sighed. 

“ _ Queen Sansa,”  _ Sandor mocked, a rough grin on his features, stretching his scars around his mouth.

Sansa did what she’d always done, every time Robb and Theon and Jon had messed with her as a kid- she pinched his side, right in the sensitive spot.

For a second, Sandor was quiet, and Sansa idly wondered if maybe she’d gone too far- what if he took that wrong? Maybe he thought it was childish, or silly, or-

Before she could move away, Sandor had grabbed her, almost throwing her on her back on the couch.

With an  _ oof  _ of air escaping her chest, she felt Stranger hop off the couch, firmly disagreeing with the entire situation. And before Sansa could even raise an eyebrow at the man above her, he had his fingers dug into her sides.

Sansa squirmed, laughter peeling out of her chest in girlish tones, tears at her eyes. She felt one of her hands make a firm contact with the side of Sandor’s head.

Sandor just laughed, sputtering when her arm hit him. “You’re all talk for a girl that can be taken down with a few tickles.”

“It’s not my fault you’re giant.” Sansa shot back, gasping in air when he finally finished his assault. 

For a second, he shifted his weight from his position between her legs, one hand holding her down firmly by the hip. And, despite the laughter seconds before, it sent a thrill through her, settling low in her belly. Just one hand, and she felt absolutely helpless.

He must’ve seen the change in her, because soon his face tightened, his eyes darker when he met hers.

To her surprise, he initiated the kiss this time; he didn’t press their bodies together, not like she wanted, but he hovered above her, pressing his lips to hers.

Sansa wondered idly what made him so hesitant with kissing of all things; he had absolutely no qualms with more sexual things, if how he’d had her pinned weeks before was any indication. But when she stopped leading the kisses, stopped initiating, he almost turned  _ tentative.  _

__ So she helped him. 

Sansa wrapped one of her legs around his waist, her socks catching on the material of his jeans; and with a firm push, she finally connected their bodies.

Something in her sang out, a pitiful little wail that said  _ finally,  _ finally she had him on top of her. Even holding up half his weight, he felt like a force on top of her. 

Once it was less kissing, more in his apparent territory, he quickly took the control back; when he pressed harder in between her waist, she let go of the kiss to gasp against him.

“Like that?” Sandor said, his voice low and measured. Sansa didn’t respond, so he rolled his hips against hers again, and she felt that force behind him, so much stronger than she’d expected.

Sansa nodded against him, their foreheads pressed together.

“I need you to say it.” Sandor said, and it sent another shudder through her. 

“I love it.” She decided on, trying to press back against him desperately. Sandor growled at that, a low sound that reverberated through their kiss.

“Listen,” Sandor said after a moment, his hand under her chin. “You need to tell me if I need to stop.”

“I will,” Sansa growled back, gritting her teeth at him.  _ Damn him, and damn his courtesies right now. _

__ Sandor laughed at her response, trailing his thumb across her lower lip. She let her tongue reach out to taste him, the salty taste of skin. 

Then he was slipping back, out of her reach, taking his hand back. She moved to follow, but he lightly pushed her back.

And then he was tugging at the buttons on her jeans, asking a silent question when he looked at her. She didn’t have to nod, just bit her bottom lip.

When he finally slipped her panties off, leaving her in just her sweater, she felt bare. It wasn’t the same vulnerable as before- for a moment she felt almost shy, like she needed to cross her legs and hide herself in the openness of his living room.

But Sandor was raking his eyes over her, an almost solemn look in his eyes. And when he met her eyes, she could barely discern the grey of his eyes from the darkness of his pupils. 

“I don’t think you realize how many times I’ve thought about this.” Sandor said, his voice much, much different from the man she’d become used to. Instead, it was darker and coarse, sliding down her spine with a shiver.

Sansa felt a thrill at that, choosing to grin up at him.

“Oh, you have?” She said coyly, opening up her legs to either side of him.

Sandor gave an almost choked noise at that, the growl caught in his throat.

“You’re a minx, girl.” Sandor spat, shaking his head. “A fuckin’  _ minx.” _

__ And at that he dove in between, her legs almost closing around ears when she felt his first kiss to her clit- demanding and powerful, her back arching into it.

“ _ Sandor,”  _ She choked out, scrambling for purchase on his couch as he began vigorously devouring her. She tried to balance her legs around his back, but he had his hands firmly pushing her into the couch, keeping her from grinding up into him.

His moan rumbling through her, sending another violent shiver down her spine. Gods, he seemed to be enjoying it as much as she was- his eyes were squeezed shut, his hands kneading into the soft skin at her hips as he swirled another tongue up, up around her clit, skirting back to her opening to plunge back in.

It had been awhile since a man had been in between her thighs, let alone  _ like this.  _ She was gasping, knowing she was probably entirely too loud, but gods above- Sandor was a godsend. 

Much, much better than all the scenarios she’d furiously ran through, late at night.

She looked down the couch at him, his huge, crouching form in between her legs. He shifted, and she could see that somewhere in the past few minutes he’d taken out his cock, had it firmly in one hand.

She whimpered at that. It was huge, much bigger than she’d expected or ever been with and gods could it even  _ fit- _

__ Sandor sucked right then on her clit, and she dug her hands into his scalp with a barely contained scream.

Sansa came harder than she’d had in years, pulling on his hair, her back in a painful arch held back only by his strong, firm hand. He worked her through it, lightly lapping at the areas around her clit, sending little pulses through her.

“Gods,” Sansa choked, feeling fresh tears on her cheeks. 

Sandor grinned at her, and she could see the moisture in his beard, the redness of his swollen lips. It was enough to send another throb through her.

She noticed that he must’ve came while she was still working through her orgasm, could see the evidence still littered on her thighs. 

“Sorry,” Sandor said, almost sheepish despite his previous attitude. Sansa almost giggled at that- she’d never expected Sandor Clegane to hold an ounce of embarrassment in his body, but yet here they were.

“Don’t apologize for that,” She shot back, feeling him shift as he moved to go into the bathroom- likely for a towel,she presumed. She stared into the ceiling, feeling an almost giddiness about her, before adding, “I’ll consider it a good start.”

She heard Sandor choke at that.


End file.
